


Not Made of Stone

by lola381pce



Series: Imagine Clint Coulson Prompts [22]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Compliant, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. References, Alien Technology, Alien Writing, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Barebacking, Canon-Typical Violence, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Clint Barton's Farm, Consensual Sex, Deaf Clint Barton, Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D is Badass, Everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. is protective, Explicit Sexual Content, Fix-It, Hurt Phil Coulson, Hydra (Marvel), Hydra Grant Ward, M/M, Manipulative Nick Fury, Phil Coulson & Nick Fury Friendship, Post-Avengers (2012), Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-HYDRA Reveal, Post-Thor (2011), Protective Nick Fury, Rescue Missions, Resurrected Phil Coulson, Snarky Clint Barton, Snarky Phil Coulson, Swearing, Swearing. Lots and lots of swearing., Threats of Violence, Undercover Missions, sassy Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-04-01 05:58:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13991943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: For an anonymous Imagine Clint Coulson prompt, although it turns out "anonymous" is the lovely fergumeister:"Imagine Clint or Phil undercover at an enemy base for weeks, and one day his cover was blown, so the other had to come and rescue him."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fergumeister](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fergumeister/gifts), [Luniana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luniana/gifts).



> We are always accepting new prompts at our tumblr account, so feel free to drop by with a little headcanon or ask.
> 
> ***
> 
> My sincere thanks to whatisluniana for being such a great (and quick) beta on this. Your suggestions and comments were much appreciated. Any mistakes at posting are mine.

Dumb. Fucking. Luck. **  
**

Perhaps that was a little unfair. As missions go, it hadn’t exactly been a cakewalk but it wasn’t smelling of shit either. Well, until now.

Coulson was undercover at the HYDRA base, had been for a couple of weeks. Another few minutes and he’d have the final bit of intel S.H.I.E.L.D. needed in order to take the place down. At least, what was left of S.H.I.E.L.D.

His last target was a supervisor’s office towards the middle of a corridor that housed several classified labs; labs with doors only accessible by Science Division bio-scanners. Unfortunately, Skye hadn’t been able to hack those no matter how hard she tried. He smiled faintly. Boy, had  _she_  been pissed! But there was an emergency exit at either end of the corridor and, of course, the supervisor’s office which she  _had_  managed to get him access to. It would be enough. It would have to be.

He knew if he was caught on this floor his cover in Communications would be blown. Its assigned level was a couple of floors below so there was no reasonable explanation for him to be here. And while that was one of several worries, right now it was the least of them. Grant Ward and his HYDRA goons were currently walking towards him.

He couldn’t turn back not without drawing attention to himself, couldn’t enter the labs thanks to the bio-scanners, and there was no-one around with whom he could blend into the scenery. He’d just have to brazen it out and hope to hell they were too self-absorbed to notice him.

He thought he’d done it. Ward was facing away from him as he passed by, then his voice called out in disbelief, “ _Coulson_?”

The brain’s natural reaction is to tell the body to turn when someone shouts your name but he’d been reciting his undercover name, Noah Dingle, (seriously, who came up with these?) in his head to keep himself from reacting. Even so, he barely managed to continue walking.

“I have no qualms about shooting you in the back, Coulson, so you may as well just stop.”

Coulson sighed. Crap!

He stopped and turned slowly, holding his hands out palms forward in a placating gesture. “Hey, Ward. Still a poster boy for team Nazi?”

Ward sighed heavily and shot him anyway.

*** *** ***

When Coulson came to he discovered a couple of things: the bullet wound in his shoulder hurt like a sonofabitch (perhaps baiting Ward wasn’t his best idea ever); and he was secured to a chair in your standard bad-guys-R-us interrogation room - bright lights, clinical white walls, lots of restraints and torture stuff. Not exactly subtle.

“Well hey there, sleepyhead. How’re you doing?” Ward asked, his voice oozing charm and concern. He was almost believable.

Coulson looked up at him with a lopsided grin, seemingly unconcerned about his current predicament.

“Could use a cuppa coffee and your chair’s no la-Z-boy but… short of that? Peachy.”

In reality, his shoulder felt like it was on fire, especially the way his wrists had been pulled cruelly behind his back and bound with a zip tie, and going by the dull ache of his skull he must have hit his head when he fell.

All that aside he was pretty sure this wasn’t going to be the worst his day was going to get. He and Ward hadn’t exactly parted on the best of terms. If memory served he’d called him a “deluded sonofabitch” and told him he’d never be a part of his team again, seeing as he’d betrayed every single one of them. Still, maybe he wouldn’t remember. Either way, this would be too good an opportunity for Ward to pass up getting his own back.

Coulson had missed his latest check-in so the team would be aware the mission was a bust by now. Whether they could get someone to him was another thing. He’d just have to wait it out, although he’d be more than a little cranky if they put themselves in danger to rescue him.

Ward sat on the corner of the table in front of Coulson and gave him what he believed to be a friendly smile. To the senior agent, it reminded him more of a shark before it attacked.

“Why’re you here, Coulson?”

“Oh, you know. Standard spy stuff. See what the enemy’s up to; leave a few “if you want a good time” messages on the restroom walls.”

Ward leaned forward so that both men were face to face then slowly pressed his thumb into the bullet wound in Coulson’s shoulder causing it to bleed again. Coulson kept his face carefully blank but he couldn’t stop the muscle in his jaw from tensing as he withheld a hiss of pain. It was gone almost before Ward could register it but the HYDRA agent was too observant to miss it. He dropped his hand wiping the blood on the leg of Coulson’s pants and sat back with a satisfied smirk.

“C’mon, Phil. You can do better than that.”

“Funny. That’s the response your good time messages were getting.”

Ward narrowed his eyes biting back his need to lash out. He wanted to hurt his ex-CO, badly, but he didn’t want to lose his temper doing it. He wanted it to be slow and methodical.

Attempting to unnerve Coulson, he wondered aloud, “There’s an interesting interrogation technique HYDRA taught me. It involves drugs to numb the nerves and needles under your nails. The pain’s excruciating when the drugs wear off.”

Apparently still unfazed Coulson replied, “Huh! At S.H.I.E.L.D. we generally call that torture. But you’re good at that. Fitz. Simmons. Skye. Must be the Nazi in you.”

The blow to Coulson’s face rocked his head to the side, splitting his lip and almost forcing his seat to fall over.

“Now who’s the deluded sonofabitch?” Ward snarled at him. He was angry at himself for losing valuable control but he just couldn’t help it. Coulson always had an infuriating knack of getting under his skin.

Coulson ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth tasting a familiar metallic tang. Well now, apparently he  _did_  remember.

“You continue to work for HYDRA willingly?”

Ward didn’t hesitate. “Of course I do!”

Coulson spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor.

“Still you,” he smirked.

Ward threw another couple of punches at Coulson’s face opening a cut over his eyebrow. When the chair finally tumbled on its side, he kicked Coulson anywhere he could reach, his rage finally getting the better of him.


	2. Chapter 2

“The fuck? You’re supposed to be dead! An’ why’d you look like you live under a bridge?”

“Very fucking funny, Barton.”

Both men lowered their weapons.

“I need your help,” Fury told Clint without preamble.

Clint gave him a hard look. “That’s nice but I’ve retired. I’ve finished with that shit. Especially for a dead man.”

“Funny you should say that…”

Fury let the sentence hang. Clint was a smart man. Much smarter than people gave him credit for. He’d get it eventually. And when he did the former head of the now-defunct S.H.I.E.L.D had a face full of Glock again.

Clint had gone pale, his expression murderous and for a split second Fury actually believed his time had come.

“You better just walk the fuck away. Right now,” Clint told him. His voice was shaking but his hand was steady. “I got no time for your twisted bullshit.”

“Wish I could. But as someone recently pointed out, I didn’t bring Coulson back from the dead just for HYDRA to kill him now. We  _need_  him. And  _I_ need  _you_  to get him back.”

“ _Fuck_  you! And fuck him.” Clint was angry. No, he was fucking seething. Bring Coulson back from the dead. Like it was nothing. And not a word. Not once. Not from either of them to say he was alive; that he was okay. But now they needed him to pull Coulson’s ass out of the fire suddenly it was cool for him to know. So, yeah. Fuck ‘em both.

Clint continued to glare at the former S.H.I.E.L.D. Director who held his gaze unflinchingly. Until his guilt overcame him making him drop his eye from Clint’s.

“He doesn’t remember,” he said quietly. “To bring Coulson back we had to do a lot of experimental shit. Drug therapy and extensive surgery. To keep him alive, to keep him sane, we…  _I_  had to re-write his memories. And it worked. For a time. But then he began to remember things. Things no-one except him seemed to know about.”

Fury looked away, a brief smile appearing on his lips as his head tilted to the side. “Coulson always was a deep motherfucker. Always played things close to his chest.”

When Fury turned back, his face was serious again, his expression full of concern for his old friend. That scared Clint more than anything. Much like himself, Nick Fury only ever looked like a pissed off bulldog.

Clint listened to the rest of what Fury had to say with a sense of dread.

“Whatever memories were resurfacing, they were beginning have an effect on the success of the procedure. He was deteriorating. Becoming unstable. Violent. We thought maybe it was something to do with Avengers Initiative so we changed certain memories. Didn’t work.  _Same_   _damn_   _thing_  kept happening, triggering the setbacks. And then it dawned on me. It wasn’t the Initiative. Not exactly. But it seemed to have something to do with New Mexico, and Project Pegasus in the Mojave. And the only tie between those and the Avengers…”

“…was me,” Clint finished quietly.

Fury nodded. “ _That’s_  what he was fighting to remember. That you two had finally gotten your shit together. Thing is, if he’d managed to keep those memories it would have fried his brain. For him to live, you and he couldn’t exist.”

He waited for Clint to say something but when he didn’t, he added, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I knew what you meant to each other.”

Clint had to accept this wasn’t some sick joke and when he did he felt his world crashing in around him for the second time. He couldn’t breathe. For so long he’d thought Phil was dead. He’d finally gotten his head straight. Accepted Phil’s death and let him go. And now this?

“No! You have no idea what we meant to each other. You didn't…” His breath hitched. He swallowed and tried again. “You didn’t even let me say goodbye. Dead or alive. Or didn’t he want that? Is that what he told you before you wiped his brain? Was he that much of a fucking coward?”

As suddenly as it was gone, the anger was back and Fury really didn’t like the way Barton’s finger was pressed against the trigger guard. It should have made him think twice about what he was going to say next but he was running out of time. Or at least Coulson was.

“Coulson was  _never_  a coward. And you’re a motherfucker for saying it. I didn’t give him the opportunity. The man was dead. I needed him back.  _S.H.I.E.L.D._  needed him back and I knew there was a way of doing it, so I did.”

Clint stared at Fury his eyes hard and cold. “Just did your own thing. As usual.”

“You could look at it like that. If you want to.” Fury scrubbed a weary hand over his face and breathed out a long and exhausted sigh. “I’ve known Phil Coulson since he was a kid fresh out of high school. All eager smiles and full of ideas on how to fix all the shit that was wrong in the world. Believed in ‘em too.”

Clint nearly smiled at that.

“He worked his ass off to make the world a safer place. And he never gave up. When the shit hit the fan all over again he just got back on his feet, straightened his tie, and went back to kicking ass and taking names. He was everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for and whether he believed it or not, he  _made_  a difference.”

Fury fell silent again as though lost in his own thoughts and when he finally spoke, it seemed to come out of left field. “He knew what he was doing that day. Taking on Loki. And he knew how it would probably end.”

That certainly caught Clint’s attention.

“The second he decided to use the Destroyer weapon, you can bet your ass he’d have been working out every scenario in his head. It’s what he did. It’s what he was good at. By the time he reached the detention area, he’d have known how things would most likely play out but he never faltered. He took the sonofabitch on anyway.”

“Yeah, and how did  _that_  turn out?” Clint choked, all the anger and hurt and sadness catching in his throat.

Fury raised an eyebrow at him. “We got  _you_  back didn’t we?”

For the second time, Clint was brought up short by Fury’s words.

“Jesus! He died… because of  _me_ ,” Clint whispered horrified. His shoulders slumped with the awful realisation that what he’d been thinking for past two years was actually true. He slowly lowered his handgun holding it against the side of his leg. Fury’s words had shaken him badly, robbing the fight from him.

Fury was relieved the Glock was no longer in his face but he wasn’t ready to let Barton take the blame for Coulson’s death. Nor was he ready to see him become haunted by old nightmares.

“Bull- _shit_! He  _died_  because of himself! I’m not saying he planned it. Not for a minute. Just figured if he didn’t make it, the team could maybe benefit from his death.”

Clint let out a humourless laugh. Yeah, that sounded like Coulson. Always a backup plan.

“Before the medics arrived, he told me…” Fury stopped as his voice cracked in a rare show of emotion. He frowned and took a deep breath before continuing. “He told me it was okay that he was clocking out. He understood the Avengers needed something to pull them together. Something to fight for. Coulson believed in heroes. He  _died_  believing that. The really fucking sad part is that he died not realising  _he_  was one. Maybe you should think about that before you start wallowing in self-pity.”

Clint stared at him in disbelief, his anguish replaced once again by a fit of rage. “Self-pity?” he spat. “Self… You know what? Go fuck yourself, Nick! You didn’t have a head full of Loki!”

“And  _you_  didn’t have a heart full of Loki’s sceptre. Maybe the two of you can compare fucking notes!”

They fell silent. Their hurt and anger with each other, with the situation, finally spent. Well, perhaps not entirely true in Clint’s case; his was still simmering, bubbling away just below the surface.

“Phil Coulson was my friend. My one good eye,” Fury continued quietly, a hint of sadness in his own voice. “Even though he begged me not to bring him back; begged me to let him die… I couldn’t. Coulson gave his life for his beliefs. I had the chance to give it back to him. To tell him he’s every bit the hero, every bit the Avenger you and the others are. So  _damn straight_  I took it. And I’m not sorry I did.”

Fury was literally blindsided by the punch to his face that left him reeling. He was lucky Clint had been holding his gun in his dominant hand or it could have been worse. Although at that moment he wasn’t sure how ‘cause it  _hurt_  like a mother- _fucker_.

“I suppose I deserved that,” Fury acknowledged, rubbing his jaw as he straightened up again.

“No. I should put a bullet in your other eye.  _That’s_  what you deserve.”

He considered Clint’s words before conceding he perhaps had a point. “Fair enough.”

“So how about you treat me with a little respect and tell me what the fuck  _really_  went down. Why you decided to cut me out of Phil’s life.”

Fury narrowed his eye and stared at him. Clint’s expression didn’t change. He may be a sniper with infinite patience but he’d had his fill of the man’s bullshit. And for all Fury was a jerk he wasn’t completely stupid. He knew when to raise and when to fold and right now, Barton pretty much had the winning hand.

With a shrug and a wry smile, he asked, “What gave it away?”

“It was an Oscar-winning performance, Nick but you really don’t give a fuck about me, or him, getting caught up in your scheming. So just fucking spare me and get on with it.”

That stung. He may not wax poetic about it but he  _did_  care. About both of them. About  _all_  of them. His S.H.I.E.L.D family. But the two of them being together wasn’t on the agenda. Not with all he knew  _before_  the shitstorm rained down and certainly not after. He weighed up the situation considering how much to tell Clint and decided to come clean. He needed him on board for Coulson’s sake. And at the very least he owed him the truth. More or less.

“I  _know_  you know HYDRA’s back. Romanoff told me as much. But more accurately, HYDRA never went away. It was just hiding. Inside S.H.I.E.L.D.; inside the World Security Council. Even the goddamned government. The Triskelion’s mostly rubble, I’ve lost my helicarriers, all the classified files have been dumped on the ‘net, S.H.I.E.L.D.’s been disavowed and anyone associated with us who isn’t dead has been labelled a terrorist, taken into custody for “ _questioning_ ” or gone into hiding. We lost a lot good people, Barton. And a lot of turds have floated to the surface including people I trusted.”

Clint snorted. “You don’t trust anyone.”

“With all the shit that’s been going down, you can see why I  _might_  have some  _trust issues_.”

Okay. Clint had to give him that. You don’t run the biggest counter-terrorism and intelligence agency in the world entrusted with preserving global security without having a healthy distrust of everything and everyone. Or making enemies.

“Assholes even tried to take out me and Hill. And… they succeeded with Sitwell. He was deep undercover for me and I couldn’t get him out in time. Motherfuckers made sure of that.”

As an agent, Clint avidly watched and read the news. Since he’d retired, not so much. But he’d heard some things through the grapevine, from Natasha mostly, and even then it was only what she’d felt like sharing. After learning about her mission with Steve, he really didn’t feel like asking for more. Maybe he should have. She may have told him about Fury’s supposed demise, and that HYDRA was back in play again (understatement) but he hadn’t known about Sitwell. Sitwell was… had been a good agent and handler, and a pretty decent guy. He was genuinely sorry he was gone.

Gradually, he was beginning to understand how much HYDRA had taken from Fury, personally as well as professionally. S.H.I.E.L.D. was his life; its people his family. However, as much as he could sympathise, Clint was still only interested in one person.

“Coulson?”

“Oh  _HELL_  no!” Fury’s eye burned with outrage as he glared at Clint. “Don’t be a dumbass. I meant everything I said about him.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “Now who’s the dumbass. I mean what happened to him? You were going to tell me why you, and I guess he, decided I was better off thinking he was dead.”

Fury had the grace to look away. He took a deep breath realizing his next words might just get him killed. HYDRA may have missed, but the Greatest Marksman in the World wouldn’t.

“I need Coulson to pick up the pieces. I didn’t know that specifically when I brought him back but I knew I was going to need him.  _You_  would have been a distraction. I couldn’t afford that. People like Coulson are the heart of S.H.I.E.L.D. And now I need him to be the head. Only he can build it back up again and he’s already started doing just that. He’ll succeed where anyone else would fail because even if it gets too much for him, he  _still_ won’t give up.”

Fury dropped his gaze from Clint’s for a moment but when it returned it was intense and full of sorrow. “I don’t have Strike Teams anymore, Barton. HYDRA has those. I only have a handful of people I can count on now and you’re the only person I can trust to bring Coulson home. I guess that means I’m just going to have to risk the whole distraction thing.”

Clint closed his eyes. “You’re a manipulative shit. You know that, right?”

“I know it,” Fury agreed. “Will you do it?”

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “Would have been good to have access to a quinjet right about now,” he muttered giving Fury a sideways glance.

For the first time in a long time, Fury chuckled. “You know… I  _might_  just be able to do something about that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m aiming to post one or two chapters each week (Tuesday and/or Thursday on tumblr, and a day later on AO3) unless one of my ICC writer buddies is posting a prompt fill.


	3. Chapter 3

“You need to take this with you,” Jemma said holding up a preloaded syringe, capped for safety. Clint stared at it but made no move to take it from her. Eventually he turned his gaze to her and she gulped loudly, embarrassingly so, at its intensity. **  
**

After their strange and painful conversation at Clint’s farmhouse, Fury brought him to the Playground depositing him with two kids, apparently members of Phil’s new team, before disappearing back to whatever bridge he was currently living under. The pair Fitz-Simmons? Fitz and Simmons? (baby versions of Stark and Banner which was scary) had some sort of relationship with Fury that seemed to bring out a softer side to him. A side Clint had rarely seen. It was as disturbing as it was terrifying.

Right now the chatty one was trying to convince him Phil had turned into some kind of unstable nut job who needed careful handling. Seriously, what the fuck had Fury’s mad scientists done to his… his what? Ex-handler? Dead friend? Departed lover? He tried not to dwell on that one. On any of them. He had no idea what he even meant to Phil nowadays. If anything at all.

He tuned into Simmons’ well-meaning but annoying as fuck lecture again. He just wanted to get going and bring Phil home.

“Director Coulson’s not… been doing so well recently,” she told him, hesitantly.

“Understatement of the century,” muttered Fitz from the corner. Jemma ignored him, and the angry narrowing of Clint’s eyes, and continued.

“I believe Director… ex-Director Fury advised you of Coulson’s… memory issues. So far as we’re aware he’s not met anyone from the Avengers Initiative as yet. There’s a possibility it might affect him quite badly. The syringe holds a strong sedative. Believe me, if he goes…” She paused wondering how to phrase it without sounding cruel.

“Looney tunes,” Fitz supplied somewhat unhelpfully.

“Fitz!” Jemma hissed, her exasperation with him evident in her tone. Unrepentant, Fitz shrugged. It was as good a phrase as any. 

Clint didn’t know whether to be grateful or pissed at the dour little Scot’s bluntness. But as knocking him on his ass would be like kicking a puppy he just ignored him. Plus, on some level their interaction was strangely reminiscent of Phil and him. And that was just… weird.

“I’m so sorry, Agent Barton. I wish I could tell you what to expect. But the truth is, we don’t really know. However, it’s better that you’re prepared. Please, take it with you.” She held it out to him again.

“Take it,” instructed a voice behind them. Simmons and Fitz jumped not having heard the new arrival enter the lab. Seemingly unaffected, Clint merely turned his head to glower.

“We need to talk,” he snapped at Melinda May. He was more startled by her presence than he cared to admit. Why wasn’t she going after Phil if she was around? She’d been his partner before Strike Team Delta and for other missions on and off. For a fleeting moment he wondered why Fury had omitted to mention May’s involvement in Phil’s new team. New life. It did however shed light on who told Fury to get his ass in gear and bring Phil back from HYDRA.

“You’re right. We do. When you get back. Right now… Skye and Trip are waiting for you in the quinjet.”

And who the fuck were Skye and Trip now?

He glared a little longer at her then nodded and walked away without taking the syringe from Jemma. May rolled her eyes and took it instead.


	4. Chapter 4

Stowing their kit onboard the quinjet, Skye side-eyed Clint with curiosity.  

“Soooo… you and Coulson,” she prompted. “Go way back, huh?”

Clint shot her his own look. Not quite murderface, not quite death-glare. But pretty much the one he’d scared Simmons with. But,  _this_  baby agent’s reaction was way different. Her eye roll was actually pretty epic. He figured she must’ve been around May too long. Clint snorted but didn’t respond.

“Rude,” Skye muttered under her breath.

Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t hear her. Perhaps she didn’t give a crap if he did. Despite himself, he kinda hoped it was the latter. Either way, he wasn’t here to play nice with Phil’s new team. He didn’t want to get to know them or grow to like them. Hell, he didn’t even know if he could trust them. He just wanted to get Phil the hell outta HYDRA and go home. Maybe punch him in the face. He hadn’t quite made up his mind about that yet. 

He probably didn’t need to be a  _complete_  a-hole about it though. 

He slammed the locker closed. “Yeah. Way back. To the day he shot me in the leg to bring me into S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Orrr… maybe he did.

Skye raised her eyebrow. It seemed a bit extreme, even for Coulson. But kinda badass too. Admittedly, she didn’t know Barton/Hawkeye/Avenger guy and he could simply be trying to wind her up. He seemed the type. Not mean, just… a dick. However, she  _did_  know Coulson. Maybe it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility.

She leaned against the fuselage and crossed her arms over her chest. “He stuck a hood over my head, kidnapped me from my van, and threatened me with a syringe full of truth serum.”

Clint shrugged.

“Must be mellowin’ in his old age,” he snarked.

“Not so sure about that,” Trip chipped in. “He did shoot Agent May on the Bus a few months back. So, I’m scheduled to fly the ‘jet, sir but if I guess you feel like taking the stick…?”

Coulson did  _what_  now? Nope. Clint wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of asking but  _damn_ , he wanted to hear that story. Besides,  _sir_? Oh,  _hell_  no. He gave Trip the same bulldog-chewing-a-lemon expression he’d given everyone else but Trip’s grin didn’t falter. If anything it widened.

“Not an agent now,” Clint growled at him. “An’ I don’t think Director Coulson would appreciate the breach in protocol allowin’ a civilian to pilot S.H.I.E.L.D property.”

Jeez, why was he being such a dick? Maybe he didn’t want them to like him either. He didn’t need anyone fucking up his life more than it already was. It was going to be bad enough when they hit the HYDRA base. The last thing he needed was getting attached to Coulson’s strays.

“The Director might let it slide,” Trip said thoughtfully, “but pretty sure Agent May would tear me a new one. Okay, so wheels up in two then.”

He turned his attention to Skye. “Come see me up front if you need anything, okay?”

She smiled and gently punched the side of Trip’s upper arm in an affectionate gesture. “You saying I’m not going to have fun with Mr Sunshine here? No offence.”

Clint shrugged, barely managing to keep his face straight. He was warming to this one. Balls and sass. Like Nat. She must be a handful for Coulson. His chest tightened at the thought and he turned his head away, biting his lip. He and Nat used to be a handful for Coulson and he coped just fine. Better yet, he nurtured them. 

Clint swallowed. He better stow that shit with his gear. Didn’t need getting all emotional in front of folks who didn’t get him. Or give a shit.

Trip grinned. “Girl, you  _know_  up front is where all the noise an’ funk is gonna be happenin’.”

The Trip guy seemed okay too, little polite but nobody’s perfect. He’d save his final judgement until he’d sampled his flying skills.  _Fuck Coulson,_  he thought angrily, choosing a seat and dropping into it. Fuck him for getting a halfway decent team. For replacing him and Nat so easily.

Trip headed to the cockpit while Skye joined Clint and the pair strapped themselves in waiting for take off. Skye’s knee bounced up and down with pent-up energy, or maybe nerves, as did Clint’s. Both of them noticed at the same time and put a stop to it with a sheepish look. Clint stretched his legs out in front of him while crossing his arms over his chest, and Skye released her laptop from its case-crushing hug, opening it on her thighs where it hummed into life.

A few moments later, the engines whined and the ‘jet lifted smoothly into the air. Not too shabby Clint acknowledged grudgingly.

Recognising the need to give each other some space - Clint to brood and Skye to become one with her laptop - any chat between them was related to Phil’s extraction with very little small talk.

They had worked on different scenarios for the mission with May before they boarded and settled on a plan that was fairly simple. Now he and Skye worked on the fine details. Trip would get them to the HYDRA facility and keep the quinjet cloaked and prepped to go; Skye would use her hacking skills and guide him through the building using the camera feeds; Clint would locate Phil, and get them both out. Quickly and quietly.

Which made it a clusterfuck waiting to happen.

Simple plans that relied on “quickly and quietly” usually meant lots of explosions and bullets whizzing by his head, and other parts, too close for comfort. Like the good old days of Strike Team Delta. Again, Clint’s chest ached with emptiness at the loss of his team.

Of Phil.

He re-focused his attention on Skye. The young hacker’s ability to concentrate on the mission even though she was obviously worried - the lip chewing and biting the skin around her nails were a dead giveaway - reminded him a little of Nat. Actually a lot of Nat. Her questions and suggestions were thoughtful with an insight that spoke of someone having been through a lot at such a young age. Sounded familiar. Nat was not the only person she reminded him of.

By the time Trip hovered the quinjet over the roof of the HYDRA building for Clint to jump out, the two of them had developed some kind of weird understanding. It had only been strengthened when Skye told him she’d gained access to the external security cameras to loop the feed back on itself. HYDRA wouldn’t see him coming.

Clint’s evil grin at the news was kinda scary but oddly reassuring.

*** *** ***

With Skye guiding him through the comms link in his hearing aids, Clint made it to the floor where the cells and interrogation rooms were located pretty quickly. Now he just had to work out which one Phil was in. Would have been a shit load easier if his tracker hadn’t been deactivated but apparently someone at HYDRA had a pretty good working knowledge of S.H.I.E.L.D protocols.

Carefully and quietly he made his way along the ventilation ducts stopping now and again to cast a brief look through an air vent or listen for any sounds of activity. His hearing aids, like much of the equipment Tony Stark provided him with, were adaptable to suit the conditions in which he found himself. The settings were automatically variable, crucial for ops like this thanks to the acoustics within the vents. He might not be able to make out all the words but he could determine if a conversation was taking place and from which direction. So far, most of the rooms had proved to be empty and the ones which were occupied hadn’t contained Phil. He hoped to fuck he hadn’t been moved somewhere else.

It was then he saw something that made his heart miss a beat then pound like a jackhammer in his chest. A freckled shoulder. Sure, other people had freckles on their shoulders however, he couldn’t mistake this one. His lips and teeth and tongue had been pressed against it, tasting the warm skin enough times for him to recognise it immediately.  

Fuck! Clint rolled onto his back, the breath having been punched from his lungs. Up until now part of him still didn’t, wouldn’t believe it. But there was no denying it any longer. Phil was alive.

He couldn’t understand how non-physical pain could hurt this much. When he’d been told Phil was dead it was as though his own heart had been cleaved in two. But now, finding him alive again, hit him harder somehow. Another wave of emotion crashed over him threatening to drown him. This was going to be so much harder than he had thought.

He took a few deep, shuddering breaths forcing himself to pull it together but not before a solitary tear escaped his eye and tumbled down his cheek. Angrily, he wiped it away.

“Above it now,” he growled to Skye, back on mission. “You got it?”

There was a moment’s silence before Clint heard her voice in his ear.

“Got it. It’s all clear and you’re good to go.” With a slight tremor in her tone, she added, “Bring him home.”

Amen to that, Clint thought.

Knowing Skye had once again successfully hacked into the security system, this time in Phil’s cell, he set about loosening the screws of the air vent. Carefully he lifted the grating into the duct and after a quick scan to check for any new danger dropped quietly into the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, folks… Clint and Phil together again for the first time since Clint’s abduction and mind control by Loki and Phil’s death at the hands of the same.

Coulson had been aware of activity in the ducts above him but didn’t give any sign of it until he heard the soft footfall of someone landing behind him. If it was a rescue he didn’t want to tip off HYDRA. If it was HYDRA trying to get his hopes up – and he wouldn’t put that past Ward – he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction.

He raised his head slowly when he sensed the figure standing in front of him. Stifling a wince as his split lip opened again, he smiled at the familiar face. Deep down he’d known who was up there. There was only one person crazy enough to attempt an extraction through the ventilation system.

“Been a while, Hawkeye. Good to see you.”

Clint’s heart broke.

Not just because of the sorry state of the man before him, his swollen face and body covered with blood and darkening bruises. And not just because of the horrendous scars from Loki’s sceptre. Scars he’d never seen before. And god help him, he’d allow himself to process that later.

But because he was Hawkeye, Coulson’s specialist. Not Clint, Phil’s lover.

He’d been warned by Fury Phil didn’t remember them but it didn’t make any difference. It hurt. The heaviness in his chest was almost overwhelming and it took every ounce of strength he possessed to answer with the cocky grin and snarky tone Coulson would be expecting.

“Hey, boss. Good to see you too. Although have to say, definitely seen you lookin’ better.”

“Really? I thought the bruises brought out the blue of my eyes.”

Jesus! That calm unflappability. Half-naked, beat to fuck and still dropping lame jokes. Even having been put through the pain of believing him dead for over two years, and with his trust - always fragile and hard-won - left in shreds apparently Clint was still in love with the man.

God knows, until a few moments ago he would have been desperate to punch Coulson in the face himself and call him a liar, same as he had with Fury. But now he knew the truth or as much of the truth as Fury was ever going to tell, he just wanted to hold Phil tight and kiss him breathless.

Of course, he did neither. Instead, he wise-cracked, “They certainly haven’t stopped you from being a smart ass, sir. What d’ya say we take this meet an’ greet this somewhere else an’ get properly re-acquainted?”

Knife in hand, he ducked behind Coulson’s seat to carefully cut the ties binding his wrists, trying his damnedest to ignore the length of scar tissue running down Coulson’s back.

“Is that your idea of a first date, Specialist?”

Clint managed not to choke on the rock that had lodged in his throat but he couldn’t stop his eyes from welling up. Those were the same words Phil had said to him in New Mexico when he’d offered to help him out of his sopping wet suit. The same words he’d spoken before they’d decided to take a chance on each other and see how things worked out. And god knows they’d worked out spectacularly well.

He closed his eyes against the memory of their gentle touches and breathy sighs as they explored each other’s bodies that night. And the handful of other nights they’d managed to steal in New Mexico then the Mojave Desert as they watched over Project Pegasus. Right up until the eventual shitstorm it became.

Fuck! He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. It hurt so damned much.

“Barton?” Coulson asked carefully. “You okay back there?”

Out of sight of Phil’s eye line, Clint bit his lip and shook his head trying to clear it along with his vision, blurred by tears threatening to spill over and betray him.  

“All good, boss. Just wondering how to cut this without damaging your shoulder more’n it is already.” He was grateful how near normal his voice sounded.

“Very thoughtful of you but… we’re kinda running out of time. I’ve no idea when that betraying Nazi sonofabitch is due back. Pretty sure it won’t be long though. Go for it and… if I pass out you can always carry me outta here like a damsel. Just saying.”

Coulson’s voice was teasing which actually helped ground Clint.

“I’ll bear that in mind, sir.” With a deep breath, he rested one hand on the forearm of Phil’s wounded shoulder and cut the zip tie taking its weight while guiding it slowly to rest by his side. He’d no idea how long Phil would have been in this position but from experience, it would be hell on his shoulders even without the bullet wound.

“Okay?” he asked as Phil’s fingers brushed over his own when he gingerly took hold of his injured limb. Clint tried not to let affect him but it was difficult. He just wanted to wrap his arms around Phil and tell him he loved him. Tell him he didn’t care that he’d gone along with the lie; that he hadn’t told him he was alive. He just wanted to be with him now and never let him go. Man, he had it bad and he couldn’t do a fucking thing about it.

He looked down to find Phil staring back at him, his brow furrowed and his head tilted to the side as though he was trying to work something out.

“I… uh. I… yeah. I’m… fine,” Coulson stammered.

He wasn’t though. He was anything  _but_  fine and he was trying desperately not to panic. Something wasn’t right. Something about Barton… Clint? But when he tried to work it out, his head screamed in agony, a blinding pain that threatened to split his skull open. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and took a few careful breaths to get himself under control.

To Clint, it was plain as day Phil was talking bull but he wasn’t going to call him on it, not right now. As Phil had already pointed out, time was getting away from them.

“We really need to haul ass an’ get out of here, boss. Can you put this on?” he asked unzipping and removing his hoodie, kneeling down beside him.

Swallowing down his pain and panic, Coulson looked at him again and gave him a tired quirk of his lips. “You sure? Don’t wanna ruin it. Bleeding out a bit here.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “How many suits of yours have I ruined over the years? Reckon I can give you one hoodie. Can you put it on or… uh, do you need some help?”

He wanted to do it himself, for  ~~Clint~~   _Barton_  not to touch him afraid of what it might do, but for the sake of expediency Coulson clenched his jaw and nodded his consent. At least it was a full zipper type, more like a jacket which would make things a little easier.

Or not.

It was only the searing stab of pain in his head that stopped Coulson from closing his eyes and leaning into the touch of Clint’s gentle hands on his skin. Instead, he sucked in a sharp breath and held it for a count of ten until the agony subsided.

“You good?” Clint asked, his face etched with worry.

“Always… so I’ve been told.”

It was his attempt at normalcy. At pretending that everything was okay. Even with the crack in his voice, he almost believed it. So did Clint. Almost.

“Your humour’s not improved any,” he muttered, helping Phil to stand, steadying him on his feet when he swayed slightly.

He managed to give Barton a weak half-smile with his sideways glance. “I get that a lot too.”

*** *** ***

The journey through the ventilation shafts to the roof proved slow going with Coulson’s injuries but he had that determined look on his face and refused to try Barton’s suggestion of an easier if a more risky option. He wasn’t going to put his specialist in any more danger than he was already facing.

Once Barton had boosted him through the vent above his cell, Coulson set off doggedly, never complaining, even though he had to be suffering. On the home stretch, however, the effort was beginning to tell on him. Sweat had soaked through Barton’s hoodie and he was panting heavily with exertion. Every so often he would let out a short gasp of pain, enough for Clint to hear, before pressing his lips together to stifle the sound.

Clint was grateful for that. The last thing they needed was for an unexpected noise from the ventilation shaft to give their position away should someone hear it. They’d been incredibly fortunate so far. He’d also noticed the wound in Coulson’s shoulder must have opened again. Clint could smell the metallic scent of it, feel the warm tackiness beneath his palms as he followed behind.

But of course, their luck could only hold for so long.

Moments before they made it safely to the emergency exit leading to the roof, the alarms wailed indignantly. Presumably, Coulson’s empty cell had now been discovered.

They shared an ‘oh shit’ look then Clint grabbed hold of Phil half dragging, half running with him to the open ramp of the quinjet. Skye was at the opening waving frantically for them to hurry. The engines were already fired up and once Clint pretty much threw Phil into the body of the aircraft leaping in behind him, Trip took off as Skye closed the ramp with a well-aimed slap of the button.

“Hey, Skye,” Coulson said with a grin that was more crooked than usual thanks to the swelling of his face. Then promptly passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you ever wondered where the inspiration and the title come from (especially for this chapter)...
> 
> It hurts the way that [you pretend] you don't remember  
> It hurts the way that you forget our times together   
> Like the time laid in bed when you said it's forever, baby  
> I can't, I can't explain no more
> 
> Baby, I'm not made of stone, it hurts   
> Loving you the way I do, it hurts   
> When all that's left to do is watch it burn   
> Oh baby, I'm not made of stone, it hurts
> 
> \- Emeli Sandi “Hurts”


	6. Chapter 6

Clint shook his head and stood up to make his way to the first aid kit near the forward section of the quinjet.

Skye dropped to her knees beside Coulson, the fingers of one hand gently brushing over the freckles of his forehead, the other clutching the hand of his uninjured limb. As Clint turned back he felt an unwelcome surge of jealousy at Skye’s familiarity.

“You’d think I’d be used to him getting into scrapes by now,” she said softly, gazing down at him.

“Why? The fuck you let him do?” Clint barked at her. Embarrassed by his outburst, and the way it caused Skye to flinch, he bit back the rest of his anger and hurt as he made his way over to them using all his skills for the circus to stay upright as the ‘jet gave an unexpected lurch.

“My bad, guys!” Trip called through from the cockpit. “Sorry ‘bout that. Cloak’s engaged but they’re havin’ some fun tryin’ to find us.”

Skye considered the heat in Clint’s voice, the burning of his eyes. She knew at that moment he and Coulson were more than colleagues, more than asset and handler, even though Coulson had never said. Never mentioned Clint Barton except in reference to Strike Team Delta or Hawkeye the Avenger. He’d always spoken with a fierce pride, maybe even fondness, and now, she thought, perhaps a certain wistfulness. But wisely she didn’t reveal her thoughts.

“He’s Coulson,” she said carefully, as though that explained everything. Actually, it did. And it was enough for Clint’s body to relax slightly from its wound up state.

“True. He’s an asshole!”

This time Skye bristled, annoyed at his flippancy. “Says the man who jumps off buildings with no superpowers or wings or flying suit of armour.”

“Yeah… but I got style!”

Skye stared at him. Then finally snorted out a laugh. Clint joined her and the tension between them finally evaporated.

Clint took advantage of a still passed out Phil to assess his injuries and clean up his shoulder. Skye let out a small gasp when he unzipped the sweat and blood-stained hoodie carefully removing it. Phil's torso had darkened further with bruises and Clint had been right. The wound in his shoulder was trickling blood again after their escape through the vents drenching his arm, matting his chest hair.

And then, of course, there was the scar which, like Clint, Skye hadn’t seen before.

“Fuck!” she breathed, her hand tightening involuntarily around Coulson’s.

Clint flicked his eyes over to her as he worked. “I guess maybe part of you never gets used to it.”

Skye ignored Loki’s attempt to kill Coulson, pushing it aside for the moment. Right now she was more angry and horrified at the damage that had been inflicted while Coulson had been in HYDRA’s hands. Even when she and May and the rest of the team had rescued him in the desert from the clutches of Centipede he hadn't been hurt like this. Beaten yes, but nowhere near as badly. These jackbooted HYDRA thugs made Edison Po look like camp counsellor of the year.

“Who did it?” she demanded. “Did he say?”

Clint shook his head as he broke out sterilised equipment from the medikit. He was gentle as he cleaned around the hole in Phil’s shoulder, checking for signs of infection. With great care, he skillfully removed the bullet managing in the process not to cause further damage to the muscle and tendons. Phil tensed up and moaned, beads of sweat breaking out along his hairline and running down his face and neck. His eyelids flickered as he murmured something under his breath.

“Ah, should you even be doing that?” Skye asked wrinkling up her nose as blood oozed out of the wound. “I mean, we're almost back at the Playground. You know, with a medical team and other… medical… stuff. Oh ew!”

Clint held the dripping bullet aloft and looked thoughtfully at Phil’s bruised and battered face. “Not the first time I’ve had to do this. Not the first time I’ve had to do this for him even. He ever show you that scar on his ass?”

That made Skye’s eyebrows shoot up with a million unasked questions. She knew Coulson was no desk jockey but he didn't often talk about his personal involvement in ops. A quick flick of her eyes over his naked torso revealed several old scars and the puckered skin of healed bullet wounds. He’d definitely seen action back in the day.

And no, she'd never seen his ass! Jeez! Although maybe  _now_  she was curious.

Ignoring Phil's discomfort and Skye’s grossed out concern, Clint continued, his fingers moved deftly while he sutured the wound then taped a sterile dressing over it. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels and answered Skye’s earlier question as best he could.

“When I was getting him out he mentioned something about a ‘betraying Nazi sonofabitch’,” he said peeling off his bloody nitrile gloves, dropping them into the medical waste bag. He reached into the medikit for a saline pouch and an IV line getting them ready to put into Phil to get fluids back into his body.

“Ward!” Skye spat, curling her lip in disgust. “I hope that asshole gets fried one day. But I really hope I get to shoot him first.”

Clint was definitely warming towards the hacker again. “Hey, girlie-girl. We got him back now. He's gonna be okay.”

Of course, that was the moment Coulson chose to go “looney tunes”.

His eyes snapped open and he sat bolt upright grabbing a fistful of Clint’s t-shirt, staring at him with a wild unfocused gaze.

“I need to know. It wants me to know,” he babbled. Not that they said much during his extraction, but although Phil had been distracted he’d also been calm and determined. Now he sounded frantic.

Snatching up a scalpel from the medikit, he pushed Clint away and got to his feet, his eyes sweeping the interior of the quinjet.

“Shit, Phil! The fuck?”

Having been caught completely by surprise, Clint had no defence against the unexpected shove and had fallen backward onto his ass, dropping the bag and line to the floor. He just sat there for a moment staring up at Phil who ignored him. Instead, he continued his scan of the jet all the time muttering “ _I need to know. It wants me to know_.” to himself over and over.

Both Clint and Skye watched with horrified fascination as Phil made his way to the exit ramp raising his hand to place it against the metalwork. Terrified of what he might do, Clint scrambled to his feet closely followed by Skye. They dashed towards him, Clint reaching him first grabbing him by the shoulders, spinning him away from the ramp, forgetting for a moment about the bullet wound.

Phil cried out, more from frustration at being prevented from achieving a goal only he was aware of, rather than pain from being touched. He tossed the scalpel into the air, turning it from a medical implement to a lethal weapon with a flick of his wrist. He swiped it at Clint who barely managed to dodge the move, the blade coming perilously close to opening a slash in his stomach. He'd sparred with Phil plenty of times and fought alongside him almost as many, so he was very much aware what his handler was capable of. But this was the first time he'd ever felt his life was in danger from him.

Taking a step back and keeping out of range, Clint tried to calm an increasingly agitated Phil but he was having none of it.

“I NEED TO KNOW. IT WANTS ME TO KNOW,” he yelled at Clint, lunging towards him, the scalpel still held in a grip that could be used to defend or attack and right now his posture screamed attack.

Clint backed away again holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Phil, listen to me. You’re safe. I’ve got you. You’re safe, Phil.”

For a second, Coulson hesitated. It was all the time Clint needed. In a blur, Clint disarmed him knocking the blade from his hand and in the same swift movement, he grabbed Phil's wrists slamming him against the bulkhead hoping to fuck he hadn’t burst the stitches. Not caring in the least about his injuries, Coulson spun them again and with an angry roar forced Clint’s back against the metalwork instead. Clint’s heart was pounding. He’d never seen Phil like this before.

Seizing the opportunity, a quick-thinking Skye found and uncapped the syringe May had slipped her before they left the Playground, sinking the needle into Coulson’s neck and depressing the plunger. He froze for a second then collapsed to his knees, the sedative working almost immediately it entered his system.

Clint caught him before he fell completely and carefully lowered him to the floor going with him, manoeuvring him until his head rested in Clint’s lap. Gently he placed one hand on Phil’s chest over his scar, in a protective gesture but also to monitor his racing heart as it gradually slowed to a more regular beat. The fingers of the other hand tenderly stroked Phil’s hair. He didn’t realise how fucked up he was himself until his own thundering heart began to calm as Phil’s tense features relaxed under his touch.

“So, that happened,” said Skye, her voice and hands trembling as the adrenaline coursed through her body. She looked down at Clint, the pain and shock… and love on his face plain to see and her heart ached for him. For Coulson. God knows, for them both.

“I’m gonna ride up front with Trip for a while,” she said, softly. She lowered a blanket over Coulson, pilfered from a locker, and touched her fingers to Clint’s shoulder. “Shout me if you need anything.”

Absently Clint nodded. In truth, it was a while before he even noticed she’d gone.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint jerked awake from the nap he’d convinced himself he wasn’t going to have. His gaze fell on Phil’s bed in the medical wing of the Playground and the sling Simmons had made him wear to ease the pain in his shoulder, both now abandoned in his room. Shit!

Three days bed rest had been prescribed, and apparently ignored, to help him recover from his time in Ward’s hands. Clint looked at his watch – twelve hours thirty-seven minutes into the first day (well, night really) and Phil was MIA. Awesome! And even more hurtful he’d managed to sneak past a seasoned agent, one-third of Strike Team Delta and a fucking Avenger thank you, without disturbing him. Even if his hearing aids were out, which they weren’t, or needed re-charged, the movement should have been enough to wake him. Double shit!

“Don’t feel too bad about it.”

Clint snapped his head up to see Skye leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, and a knowing smile playing on her lips. Jesus, she reminded him of Phil in that instant.

“Don’t know what he was like before,” she said, “but along with everything else ‘operation zombie’ did, I think it gave Coulson ninja abilities and an invisibility cloak.”

“He was always a ninja. But the invisibility cloak’s new,” Clint conceded.

Tired and annoyed with himself, he scrubbed a hand over his face then pushed himself out of his seat. He wondered if this was how Phil used to feel when he or Natasha pulled the disappearing agent act in S.H.I.E.L.D. medical. Probably. It sucked.

“You seem very calm for someone who’s just found out her batshit crazy boss has gone missin’,” he said to Skye while he stretched out the kinks in his back.

Skye bit her lip and looked away rather than let out the whimper attempting to escape at the flex of his muscles. She smirked knowing Coulson had bagged an incredibly hot Avenger at some point, even if he didn’t talk about him much. Coulson’s Secret Avenger.

“He does that a lot?” Clint asked with a final crack of his neck. Better.

Skye shrugged. “Recently? Yeah. A  _whole_ lot. May and I usually take turns watching over him but something tells me you won’t settle until you know he’s safe. Come with me. But stay quiet.”

Clint nodded but noticing her careful wording he wanted confirmation about Phil’s state of mind. “Safe but not okay.”

Skye smiled again, sadly this time, and shook her head. “Nope. Not by any definition of the word.”  

She came to a stop outside a door that Clint recognised as belonging to the Director’s office. Phil’s office. He still couldn’t get his head around that. It was weird. Not surprising perhaps; he was Fury’s “one good eye” after all but… yeah, weird. Before he could say anything, Skye put her forefinger against her lips in a shushing gesture and turned the handle, quietly pushing the door open. She stood back and nodded for him to look inside.

Clint stepped forward and after a moment, his eyes widened as he watched Phil standing in front of a wall scoring symbols into the plaster with a feverish intensity. His carving was precise but there was an undeniably frenzied edge to it. From the doorway, Clint could see sweat glistening on the skin of Phil’s neck just below the hairline and as he looked closer he noticed a darker patch in the centre of his back where the sweat had soaked through his S.H.I.E.L.D. t-shirt.

“What the  _fuck_?” Clint breathed.

“Hypergraphia,” Skye whispered to him.

Unable or unwilling to look away from Phil, he said, “What?”

“Hypergraphia,” Skye repeated. She opened her mouth to explain when Clint shook his head.

“No, I know what it means. A behaviour condition manifesting in a compulsive need to write or draw exhibiting in repetition and a high level of detail.” And oblivious to Skye and Clint behind him, Phil was the very definition of the term. “I meant what does it have to do with Coulson? Why’s he doing it?”   

Skye shrugged. “It’s a side effect of whatever they did to him to bring him back.”

“Jesus!” Seriously? What the everloving fuck!

“He’ll keep going until he’s finished. Or his blade snaps. Then he’ll… find another one and get right back on it.”

Clint watched for a time before asking in a low voice, “You ever tried to stop him?”

“Interrupted him, restrained him, and sedated him… yeah! Didn’t go so well. He turned his knife on May when she tried to stop him. Freaked him out. Coulson was terrified he was going to hurt her. That’s when he asked her to use restraints and not the kinky kind.”

She blushed and gave him an embarrassed smile. “Sorry. I shouldn’t…”

Clint shook his head and gestured for her to continue.

“Apparently he was like an addict going through cold turkey. Screaming and begging and crying. And sedation wasn’t much better. It left him exhausted and barely able to function. And cranky. Really, really cranky.”

Clint had experienced cranky Phil on several occasions. Not fun.

“So you just let him do it… whatever  _it_ is?”

Skye continued to watch Coulson. “He resists it for as long as he can but eventually he starts writing again. I think this was what he was trying to do back on the quinjet.”

That made sense or at least as much sense as anything else made since Fury dragged him into this crazy sideshow.

“An’ he can perform… as Director?” Clint asked. “I mean, he’s not puttin’ anyone’s lives in danger?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Definitely not.” She trailed off and wrinkled her nose in thought. “Well, okay. Not until yesterday… and that time with May… but I think yesterday was a pretty extreme circumstance and May was definitely a one-off. He has us do some weird things though. Again, not kinky.”

This time she did smile and despite his shock at the what he was witnessing, Clint grinned back. Which was kinda messed up.

“Looking for meanings behind the carvings, tracking down artefacts with the symbols and buying them or acquiring them by… other means,” Skye explained.

“Stealing them.” It was more an acknowledgement from Clint than a question.

He was well aware Phil could and would find a way around the rules when he had to. Blatant theft? Well, he used to be part of Strike Team Delta which boasted Black Widow (the deadly Russian assassin) and Hawkeye (the World’s Greatest Marksman) as its other two members. Phil had to know a few tricks to keep them out of trouble… actually, make that get them out of trouble. Blatant theft wasn’t really much of a shock.

Skye gave Clint a guilty look. She had done a lot of dodgy things in her time when she was a hacker out on her own in her van but she always had a reason going into it. With Coulson, she was going on trust, and although she would always trust him no matter what, no-one really knew what was driving Coulson.

“In his defence, it’s mostly to stop HYDRA from getting them.” She shrugged and added, “Probably.”

“Needs must, kiddo. Don’t sweat it. I’m guessin’ he has his reasons.”

“I just wish I knew what they were,” Skye said sadly. “I’m gonna leave you with him. Stay and watch him but don’t try to stop him. Okay? And if anything happens call May or me.”

Clint nodded and crossing his arms over his chest, resting his back against the wall, settled in to watch and wait.

*** *** ***

It was another hour, maybe a little more before Coulson finally stopped. With carelessness that was totally out of character, he dropped his knife to the floor oblivious that he narrowly missed his bare foot. Feeling shattered, he leaned his forehead against the wall, palms spread out on either side of his shoulders, breathing in short, raspy bursts. The smell of dust from carving the symbols out of the plaster was strong, and the dust motes irritated his nose and the back of his throat. Not enough to make him sneeze or cough but enough to make him wish he had some water.

Each session was exhausting, physically and mentally, but somehow this time seemed worse than the others. This time he couldn’t be more thankful that he’d finished.

He slowly clenched and unclenched his right-hand several times to relieve the cramp before touching his fingers to his damaged left shoulder. He winced at the sharp pain it caused, triggering fresh aches all over his body. Oh yeah! Yesterday, he’d been shot and beaten by a member of his team. Well, former member. That kinda sucked. It also served as a reminder as to why this session had been more draining than normal. Ha, normal! What about any of his life was normal nowadays?

He took a couple of steps back to study his handiwork and sighed. It was identical to every other time and it still didn’t mean a damn thing. Sadly, the damp smear his forehead had left didn’t add much. He ran his hand through his hair, soaked with sweat, feeling like he’d just been thrown out the back of a truck and rolled down a really big mountain. Or run a marathon. Nope. Definitely the truck/mountain thing.

“I didn’t realise you had such an artistic streak, boss.”

Coulson flinched. He hadn’t been aware anyone was in the room. He never was until he’d finished writing and had come out of his semi-conscious state. But he certainly didn’t expect this visitor. May or Skye, perhaps. Although in retrospect, maybe he should have. Clint had come for him at the HYDRA base after all.

Coulson turned to face him, his movements deliberate and unhurried with a slow smile spreading across his face. A quick glance at Clint’s ears told Coulson his hearing aids were in but he acknowledged Clint’s presence with a soft murmur accompanied by signing “Hi, Clint.”

His voice was warm, happy even, and it made Clint grin back at him. He felt his heart soar hearing his name falling from Phil’s lips and hands.  _Clint_ not Hawkeye. Maybe Phil was back, really back this time. Admittedly, he looked like shit, kinda. But he also looked pretty hot all rumpled and sweaty, his damp hair sticking up at odd angles. It reminded him of sexier times and of…

Clint pushed the rest of that thought out of his head and walked towards him holding out an unopened bottle of water.

“You look like you might need this. How d’you feel?”

Coulson thought for a moment reaching out his hand for the water. “Like I’ve been thrown out the back of a truck and rolled down a really big mountain,” he answered, knowing Clint would appreciate both the imagery and the sentiment of his thought from moments before.

Clint’s grin became wider. “Somehow I think you mean that literally.”

“Actually, I think you…”

Their fingers touched. Only for a second but that was all it took.

The bottle dropped from Phil’s grip and he sank to his knees clutching his head in his hands. He bit back a scream, his body stiffening at the torrent of fragmented memories, mostly of him and Clint, flooding his mind making him breathless at the intensity of it. He couldn’t focus on any of them but he was left gasping at the searing pain they were causing him.

Clint watched horrified, unable to help, knowing he would only make it worse if he tried. He did the next best thing calling Skye’s number on his cell phone and barked at her to get her ass back stat. And bring another syringe.

He shoved his phone back in his pocket and crouched down near Coulson, keeping his voice low and calm as he murmured gently to him, trying to soothe him.

Coulson could vaguely hear someone talking but they sounded so far away. His body shook all over and he dry-retched a couple of times, falling forward onto his palms getting light headed from the pounding deep in his skull. On and on it went, the feeling that his head was going to explode until he felt a sharp pain in his neck and the blessed darkness finally claimed him.

Clint could finally do something and moved in to lift an unconscious Coulson onto a gurney before Simmons and Skye set off at a run presumably back to the medical wing.

“I can’t do this, May,” Clint told her, his voice broken and raw. He slumped against Coulson’s desk, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as the adrenaline rush finally ran its course. “I can’t put him through this. Or me. It’s killin’ him an’ it’s destroyin’ me.”

May’s face didn’t change from its set expression but the pain in her eyes told him she understood. Watching Coulson lose control like this was the hardest thing she’d had to endure since learning of his death on the helicarrier.

“How about we have that talk,” she said, quietly. “There are things you need to know.”

*** *** ***

Phil woke up pleased to see May sitting with him. But in a way, also a little disappointed. He had hoped to find someone else in the chair beside his bed. It’s what they used to do for each other. Strike Team Delta. Sit by each other’s bedsides and wait.

One look at her face and he knew he wouldn’t see Clint again. Not here. Maybe not ever.

“He’s gone, hasn’t he?” he asked her quietly, at a loss to explain the sudden ache in his chest.

She didn’t need to answer him with words. The way she continued to look at him, her gaze soft and a little sad, was enough of a confirmation.

He nodded once and closed his hand around hers when she held it out to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last part set in the Playground. The rest of the story takes place at Clint's farmhouse. I know this is another angsty, painful chapter but things will start to look up for the boys, I promise... although there may still be a few bumps in the road.
> 
> My thanks for the wonderful, encouraging comments I've received along with all the kudos. They mean so much.


	8. Chapter 8

Clint braced his shoulder against a roof column of the porch. Like the rest of the farmhouse, it was weathered but strong, having stood firm against whatever the elements could throw at it over the decades. Its solid familiarity at his back gave him the comfort and support he needed right now.

His hands, clenched into tight fists, were crammed into his jeans pockets while his empty stomach rolled with nerves. He hadn’t been able to eat anything since he received the phone call several hours earlier. Instead, he’d kept himself busy by firing up the tractor and clearing more of a path from the mailbox to the house and round to the barn. He followed that with some cooking and baking fresh bread, ending his desperate need to keep his mind and hands occupied barely minutes ago with brewing a fresh pot of coffee. If nothing else the place would at least smell welcoming.

Now he watched the steady progress of the ‘62 Corvette making her way down the snow-covered track, her cherry red paintwork standing out like spilt blood against the stark white of the snow. His own blood roared in his ears forced around his body by the jackhammer currently pounding in his chest as Lola drew up to the porch steps, the snow crunching beneath her tyres, and came to a stop.

Keeping the concern from his face, Clint couldn’t help but notice the care with which Phil climbed out of the car and closed the door behind him with a gentle thunk. It was possible that he was still suffering from the bullet wound and beating he’d received at the hands of Ward, the HYDRA Nazi poster boy, but the split lip, fresh butterfly stitches and bruising to his forehead suggested that he’d been in some shit again.

Clint figured he’d wait until later before mentioning it but it did make him wonder what the hell Phil’d been up to this time. Why he felt the need to get up to anything at all.

Still, even with the wounds to his face, he looked good. The suit - which would do very little to protect him from the chill of the afternoon - was a favourite of Clint’s; dove grey, worn with a crisp white shirt that made the snow look dirty, and a sapphire blue silk tie. He was wearing his aviators too, protecting his eyes from the glare of the sun bouncing off the snowbanks. Phil looked every bit the handler he once knew rather than the wreck of a man he saw a few months ago. Clint’s heart brimmed with hope that the Phil Coulson standing in front of him was  _his_  Phil Coulson.

“Iowa in the winter an’ you’re wearin’ a fancy suit  _and_  drivin’ Lola?” Clint smirked,  straightening from the column to amble down the steps to greet him.

“Call me crazy but...  I thought it showed a certain panache,” Coulson smiled back, plumes of breath puffing from his mouth. He removed his sunglasses revealing those incredible blue/grey eyes of his. Clint’s mouth suddenly became dry as his gaze locked onto Phil’s. It took a lot of control to force himself to act casually, or at least calmly under the circumstances.

“You’re crazy,” he replied, causing Phil to roll his eyes in mock-exasperation. Clint ducked his head and gave him a shy smile. “At least you put her roof on. That’s something I guess.”

“Crazy but not a dumbass,” Coulson deadpanned, giving a small shrug of his right shoulder. It would appear his left was still causing him problems after all.

They fell quiet for a moment drinking each other in. Eventually, it was Clint who broke the silence. He knew if he continued to stare at Phil much longer he’d want to touch him, melt into his arms, and he was nowhere  _near_  ready for that. He doubted Phil was either.

“Made some food if you’re hungry.”

“Sure. I could eat. And coffee?” Coulson added hopefully, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the little half-smile Clint thought he’d never get to see again.

He gave Phil a quick flash of a grin. “Maybe. Go park Lola in the barn ‘round the side an’ I’ll heat it up. An’ come in the front door, yeah?”

Coulson looked at him like he wanted to say something but in the end, he just nodded and slipped his aviators back on.

“Seeya in few,” he said, climbing back into Lola. Clint’s forehead creased in a frown as he once again noted Phil’s stiff posture even though he was trying to hide it. Seriously, what was wrong with the man? Was this his thing now? Was it some kind of penance? Was he trying to make amends for something? For surviving? Shit, he had so many questions.

Rather than watch him drive away, Clint jogged back up the few stairs and headed inside. Closing the door behind him, he leaned heavily against it and took a deep, calming breath. Seeing Phil again made him wonder if he’d done the right thing allowing him to come. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough to go through it again if there was a repeat of what happened back at the Playground.

And there was no-one here to help him out if it all went to shit.

Angrily, he pushed himself away from the door and toed off his boots, shaking his head like a wet dog. Seriously? Fuck that noise! Phil had finally reached out to him and  _that’s_  what mattered. They never had the chance to talk about his death or his return the last time. Maybe this time they would. To move forward, maybe this time they had to.

*** *** ***

“Something smells good,” said Coulson. Clint didn’t jump. His butt cheeks may have clenched a smidge inside his jeans but he definitely didn’t jump. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Nah, all under control,” he said, casting a glance over his shoulder at Phil.

He’d been lost in thought and didn’t hear him come in. Skye’s words about “ninja abilities and invisibility cloak” popped into his head making him smile. At least some things didn't change. However, other things apparently did.

Somewhere between the front door and the kitchen Coulson had removed his suit jacket, loosened his tie to open the top couple of buttons of his collar, and was currently rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt. It was rare to see him in such a state of undress. Even back when they were… whatever they were doing… he was suited and booted until they were in bed. Or against a wall.

Scratch that. He’d fucked Clint against a wall fully dressed once. He could still remember the soft rasp of the suit against his naked skin as Phil pushed inside, murmuring quietly into his ear while he fucked into him with long, deep strokes. Neither of them had lasted long that night.

Feeling the heat rise in his cheeks as he remembered their shared intimacy in the desert, Clint turned back to the stove and tried to focus his thoughts on food again. It wasn't going to do him, or them, any good if he continued down that road.

He cleared his throat and said, “Food shouldn’t be long. You wanna grab a coupla forks from that top drawer?”

He nodded his head towards the unit beneath the kitchen countertop while he gave the contents of the casserole dish, liberated from the oven a short time before Phil arrived, another stir releasing more of the rich, savoury aroma into the air.

“Sure,” Coulson agreed amiably, taking another deep sniff. Clint’s chest puffed just a little at the appreciative look on Phil's face.

“After I visit the head? Been a long drive.”

Clint grinned sympathetically. He should have thought of that himself. “Room by the front door.”

On his return to the kitchen, Clint was fully aware of Phil's presence. He watched him out the corner of his eye as Phil crossed the floor to Clint’s side, touching his fingertips lightly to the work surface, gliding them across it as he moved. It seemed to have a certain sensuous quality to it. But then that could just be Clint’s current mindset.

In reality, there was nothing nefarious behind Coulson’s actions. He simply enjoyed the warmth and beauty of natural timber over cold, hard granite. This was lovingly crafted and well-cared for. Oiled and rubbed down regularly. As reached into the drawer to lift out the cutlery, Coulson took a guess and asked, “This your work?”

Clint shrugged and nodded keeping his attention firmly focussed on the dish in front of him. He didn't want Phil to see the blush that was colouring his cheeks anew at the praise hidden behind the words.

Coulson nodded. “Thought so. It’s dope.”

Clint froze. Then snorted. Then laughed out loud… or should that be LOL to use Phil’s vernacular? It was a full belly laugh that would leave his ribs aching when he finished. He let the spoon slip out of his hand into the pot to hold onto the kitchen surface. Probably a good idea seeing it was the only thing preventing him from face planting into the warm stew.

“It’s  _what_?” he wheezed. He felt kinda shitty busting a gut at Phil's expense but he honestly never expected to hear a phrase like that coming from Senior Agent… sorry,  _Director_  Phillip J Coulson, badass of S.H.I.E.L.D. Seriously, if he didn't have his ears in and fully charged he'd have figured he'd misheard. Phil  _had_  to have picked it up from Skye. Or maybe Trip. Either way, it was as funny as fuck. And god knows he needed the release. The tension that had been building inside him throughout the morning had him coiled like an over-tightened spring.

Coulson watched Clint’s body shake with mirth as he completely lost it. Torn between being a little hurt by Clint’s reaction and finding it funny himself he groused, “Fuck you, Barton. I have kids on my team who appreciate my boyish charm and witty banter.”

“You sure about that?” Clint asked, through a couple of laughter hiccups finally regaining control of himself. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands wiping away the tears.

Coulson appeared to think about it for a moment. “Not as sure as I was. Thanks for that.”

Clint turned to face him attempting to look contrite. Difficult to do when he was obviously trying his damnedest not to snigger. He opened his mouth to apologise and snapped it shut turning his head away again as another fit of the giggles threatened to spill out.

“Shut up. You’re such a jerk,” Coulson said. There was no heat to his words. Instead, the corner of his mouth curled up in a half-smile. He’d given up pretending to be pissed. He never could remain annoyed with Clint for long especially when he found something so funny he couldn’t breathe because of it. It was one of his more endearing qualities.

Clint grinned back and picked up the wooden spoon then wrinkled his nose when he realised his hands were now covered in goop.

“Aww, stew no!” he muttered then licked and sucked the gravy from his fingers.

Coulson tried not to dwell on the way Clint’s tongue travelled thoroughly over and around each sticky digit before disappearing it into his warm, wet mouth. That wasn’t so much endearing as downright pornographic. Fuck! He closed his eyes and swallowed. Wrong. So wrong on so many levels. He should not be thinking things like that. Not now. Definitely not now.

For a change, Clint was oblivious to what he was doing and gave his fingers final lick before wiping the spoon with a cloth and resumed his stirring.

“Pretty sure they do appreciate you,” Clint told him after a moment, pulling Coulson back to the here and now. “Back at The Playground, it seemed they’d do anything for you. Except maybe keep you out of trouble by the looks of things.”

Coulson clenched his jaw and ducked his head, tilting it to the side to give Clint a bashful look. “They try but… you know me.”

“Yeah… I used to.” It was out before Clint could think about it. Or hold it back. His spine stiffened at his own words but now that he’d said them, it was as though a dam had burst and he couldn’t control the flood.

“Why, Phil? It was me an’ Nat. You could’ve told us anything. We’d’ve been there for ya. I thought you trusted us. Trusted me.”

Coulson winced. He wasn’t surprised by Clint’s outburst. Not really. In fact, he’d been expecting something like this but it was the rapid change from such good humour just moments before to such a profound sadness that shook him.

“You sure you wanna do this now?” he asked, gently.

Defiantly, Clint turned off the heat under the casserole dish and turned to face him folding his arms across his chest. The tension he’d managed to release with his laughter was back, the air heavy and thick with it.

Coulson nodded, his mouth turned down. “You weren't part of the mission.”

Clint’s eyes widened in shock and hurt. He tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. His eyes, however, were prickling with tears and he blinked several times willing them away.

“That simple, huh?” His voice was hard and bitter.

Coulson couldn't blame him. He’d been blunt. Too blunt probably. But to get through this, to give Clint the explanation he needed, he was going to have to distance himself from his emotions. And Clint’s. Flick that switch inside him that turned him into the stoic senior agent, unflappable and controlled.

Again, Coulson nodded, grim-faced. “That simple. Alien tech had been rummaging around in my head. Reprogramming my mind. It was altering memories of the procedure and… of my life. Memories it had identified as interfering with my survival. And... it was planting new ones. When it was finished, T.A.H.I.T.I was a magical place and not a hellish torture OR in some secret S.H.I.E.L.D. facility that I knew nothing about. Only… I did.”

He narrowed his eyes at Clint’s expression. He looked like he was about to throw up. Definitely too blunt. He also looked confused as hell.

“How much of my being brought back to you know about?” Coulson asked warily, his forehead creasing in a frown.

Clint stared at him. His defiant stance turned defensive as he hunched over, his hands unclenching under his arms to become more of a hug as though protecting himself from Phil’s words. Or maybe Phil himself. Eventually, in a quiet voice, he spoke.

“Some. Fury told me bits before I came to get you at HYDRA an’ May told me some of it back at the Playground after… the writing thing. But I wanna hear it from you. All of it.”

“It’s gonna take a while.”

“Not going anywhere, Phil. Not this time.”

Clint took a deep breath and uncurled himself. He gestured towards the kitchen table while he fixed two mugs of coffee. His back was to Coulson so hopefully, he wouldn't see the way his hands were shaking.

Accepting the inevitability of the situation, it’s why he'd come after all - to talk, to explain… to ask forgiveness - Coulson took his own deep breath and pulled out a side chair. He turned it to face Clint who’d slipped into a seat at one end, and sat down.

The simple but meaningful gesture wasn’t lost on Clint and with a brief quirk of his lips, he passed Phil a mug doctored with milk and sugar the way he liked it. Phil breathed in the steam then took a long swallow closing his eyes as the liquid rolled over his tongue and down his throat. It was only the seriousness of the task ahead that prevented him from moaning out loud. It was good. Excellent actually. But then he’d expect nothing less from Clint Barton, the coffee hound.

Clint gave him a knowing look as though completely aware of what Phil was holding back. And perhaps he was at that. He’d often done the same himself after gulping down his first throat-blistering draught from a fresh pot. He didn’t comment however believing, like Phil, now wasn’t the time for jokes or innuendos. Now was the time to talk; to clear the air.

He swallowed his own mouthful of coffee and observed the way Phil was sitting; spine straight against the backrest of the chair, breathing slow and steady, a determined set to his jaw. His left hand was flat on the surface of the table. The only sign of nervousness he could detect was the way Phil’s fingertips touched the wood, bouncing against it lightly as he gathered his thoughts. He didn’t mention the cuts and bruises on Phil’s knuckles but on some level, he was glad to see them. It meant whatever had happened to him, he’d at least put up a fight.

After a few moments Coulson’s eyes locked onto Clint’s and he began without preamble.

“They told me I was dead for eight seconds. But… it felt longer. Turned out I was right. I’d been in a body bag for days when Fury decided to ship me to one of his... secret facilities and reactivate Project T.A.H.I.T.I. to bring me back...”


	9. Chapter 9

Somehow Coulson managed to keep his voice calm and his face impassive as he recounted the use of serum derived from Kree tissue, and the horrors of the procedures involving alien technology which had him begging for death. It was the pain in his eyes that gave him away.

He didn’t tell Clint to shock him or to gain his sympathy - although it clearly did both - but for him to understand he'd been resurrected under Fury’s orders. Revived against his will.

He’d accepted his fate on board the helicarrier when he went after Loki. He'd calculated the odds and determined there was a high probability he wasn’t going to survive the encounter. It's not that he had a death wish particularly but he had to try. He had to give the others time. A chance to be the heroes he knew they were.  _A chance to bring Clint home_ … although that last thought, he kept to himself.

So, yes. He had accepted his fate but apparently, Fury hadn't, moving heaven and earth to bring his oldest friend back from the dead.

For Clint’s sake as well as his own, he didn’t dwell on his revival and moved onto Fury’s new mission for him with a different team, the Bus, and the 0-8-4 type cases they worked. He couldn’t miss Clint’s expression growing cold and hard at their mention. Nor could he ignore the stiffening of Clint’s shoulders, and his knuckles turning white as he tightened his grip on his mug.

God knows had taken him long enough, but Coulson hadn't realised until now Clint believed he’d replaced him and Tasha without a thought. Without caring. In reality, the opposite was true. He knew they could never be replaced. Nor would he ever wish to. As much as Hawkeye and the Black Widow had driven him to distraction with their blatant “fuck the rules” attitude, his years spent as their handler had been the best of his life. He’d loved being part of Strike Team Delta. He’d loved the easy companionship of the three of them, their effective and efficient teamwork in the field, their fierce protectiveness of each other in and out of it.

He missed them. He missed Clint. God, how he missed Clint.

However, the simple truth was S.H.I.E.L.D. came first. It always had. Clint and Natasha were Avengers now, keeping the world safe in their way. He was still part of S.H.I.E.L.D. keeping the world safe in his. And he needed a team for that.

No, the decision hadn’t been made lightly but it had been made nonetheless. His biggest regret was that he never got to tell them goodbye. No, that was his second biggest. His biggest regret was not having been there for Clint after Loki’s mind fucking. But he'd convinced himself, or been convinced, to trust the system. That they were better off not knowing he was alive especially if he went the same way as the Project T.A.H.I.T.I test subjects.

He'd seen first hand the extreme side effects suffered by the men and women who’d volunteered; hypergraphia, aphasia, catatonia and in some cases, complete psychosis. Only a total mind wipe had proved effective at stemming the effects. Even then the results were hit or miss. They may have been willing participants - all were dying S.H.I.E.L.D. agents with nothing to lose - but he knew in good conscience he could not let it continue and had resigned his post as head of the Project recommending to Fury it be terminated. He couldn't put anyone else through it. Not even a fallen Avenger for whom the procedure had been developed.

Coulson’s face paled at the thought of what had happened to him happening to Clint and he closed his eyes, breathing slowly, willing himself under control. Willing away the tears that burned behind his lids. After a few minutes of silence, he realised he’d been lost in his own thoughts. He slowly raised his head to look at Clint and gave him an apologetic shrug.

Clint nodded in understanding. All this was more difficult for him to hear than he thought it would be. And as much as it shook him to listen to Phil talk about his death and revival he could only imagine how it felt for Phil to talk about it.

He gave Phil a moment to get himself together again and headed to the fridge to bring back a couple of bottles of water. He'd considered the beer chilling beside it but maybe not the best idea on an empty stomach. Setting one in front of Phil, Clint sat back down to wait patiently for him to continue.

Anguish crept into Coulson’s voice and face as he recounted the nightmares and gaps in his memories, of which there were many. The dreams were bad enough, waking him in a cold sweat, trembling and scared shitless. But not understanding  _why_  he was having them and feeling the explanation was just out of his reach was as terrifying as it was frustrating.

His questions (and fears) were finally answered following his capture and torture in the desert by Centipede, and Raina’s manipulation of him into using the memory enhancement machine. Oh sure, part of him wanted to anyway. The part that was losing faith in the system. She just happened to give him a nudge at the right time, asking him if he didn’t want to find out why the response “I _t’s a magical place_ ” was triggered every time someone mentioned Tahiti. And for the record, not so magical.

He took a quiet moment to compose himself before he talked of Grant Ward's betrayal and his working for the Clairvoyant (who he revealed as John Garrett, shocking the hell out of Clint, as did the revelation that Garrett had been a HYDRA agent all along).

 _Jesus! How many others_? Clint wondered to himself.

The chilly, flat tone of Coulson’s voice conveyed his anger when he described Ward’s cruel and cold-blooded murder of Eric Koenig, and his abduction of Skye from the Providence base. In his own mind, he’d already allowed her to be harmed when she’d been shot by Ian Quinn on the orders of the Clairvoyant, all in an attempt to discover the secret of Coulson’s resurrection. He’d be damned if he’d allow it to happen at the hands of Ward.

With Hill’s assistance, he'd been able to steal on board the Bus and get Skye back but it had been touch and go. He’d nearly lost them both when Lola had plummeted to earth in an uncontrolled freefall until her thrusters thankfully kicked in.

Subconsciously, as Coulson talked about him, the fingertips of his right hand rubbed against his shoulder where Ward's bullet had entered. Realising what he was doing he dropped his hand away and leaned forward on his seat, legs apart, elbows on his knees as he switched topic again. He could only think about Ward for so long without wanting to punch something.  

He admitted May’s abandonment of the team at Providence had hurt him badly but he had no-one to blame for that except himself. After finding out she’d been acting under Fury’s orders, reporting to him the whole time they’d been on the Bus, he gave her the ultimatum to follow his orders... or leave.

He smiled ruefully at Clint. She’d chosen to leave. Hell, he’d shot her with an I.C.E.R. He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

“You really shot May?” Clint asked, his eyebrows touching his hairline. So Trip hadn’t been taking the piss after all.

“Kind of? With a night-night gun. An I.C.E.R. Just knocked her unconscious for a time.”

“Still fuckin’ nuts. You know that, right?”

“Since then, she and I have been dancing. May wore a dress. Even heard her laugh over the comms. Weirded out the team but that’s another story.” He gave Clint a mischievous smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he took a sip of water.

Clint grinned at him. “You’re definitely goin’ to tell me that one. But how about you go on. If you still want to?”

Coulson nodded, his senior agent face falling into place again as he sat back in his seat. He owed it to Clint to finish this. “I want to.”

It seemed once again, May had another agenda. Looking for answers on his behalf, she’d met with Hill before digging up his grave at Hill’s prompting. There she discovered a USB stick that revealed him as head of Project T.A.H.I.T.I.

She’d sat Coulson down in his motel room and showed him the footage in an attempt to mend the rift between them. If Ward's betrayal had been unexpected and disappointing, hers was a crushing blow. Working for Fury. Watching him. Waiting to see if he was going to lose it. And keeping it all from him even though she knew he was going out of his mind trying to find out why he felt so different. Why some memories just didn't sit right with him.

He snorted at the irony. Hadn't he done the same with Clint and Natasha? Kept them in the dark believing it was the right thing to do.

Still, he was relieved May and he had worked through their differences now. Things weren't the same as they'd once been but they were getting better.

 _He desperately wanted to do the same with Clint, if he would let him. That he was being given the chance to explain was more than he could have hoped for. He could only imagine what it must have been like for Clint to be told out the blue he was alive after two years. Especially after all he’d been through with Loki in his head, controlling his actions._ All this Coulson kept to himself.

Even though he’d tried to keep his account as succinct as possible, Coulson had been talking solidly for almost two hours with barely an interruption from Clint. The last of the afternoon light had faded to darkness and at some point, he couldn't remember when Clint must have put on a few lamps in the kitchen. Their glow, like Clint’s presence, was warm and comforting giving Coulson the strength to carry on.

When he recalled his obsession with the alien symbols, his voice broke a few times. Unable to control it, his hypergraphia had gotten worse, going from a few times a month to a couple of times a week between urges, finally to a daily occurrence. It terrified him knowing it could progress the way it had with the other subjects - him losing his grip on reality and not being able to come back from it.

Clint couldn't prevent the shiver from rolling down his spine, its icy fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps on his skin. The last time he’d seen Phil it was during one of his manic hypergraphia periods. He remembered how much it had taken out of him, how drained he'd been before they'd accidentally touched and Phil had collapsed in agony.

Clint gave up trying to hide his grief and sympathy. It sucked. Really sucked that Phil had been taken from him after so short a time together. Together as in something more than the closeness of Strike Team Delta. But he was slowly realising it hadn’t been done thoughtlessly by Phil.

Or by Fury.

Sure, Fury may have kickstarted it by bringing Phil back and keeping it a secret from everyone… well, the Avengers at least. But in a way, he kinda understood where Fury was coming from. And he was right about one thing. Phil was S.H.I.E.L.D. He was the one who protected people from events they weren’t ready to encounter. And when he couldn’t do that, he would at least try to keep them safe. It was his nature to do so. Looking at him sitting across from him, cut and bruised, Clint would have bet the farm, literally, that’s what he’d been doing to end up like this.

But he missed him. He missed him so damned much. And hearing all the shit he’d been through without him by his side. He’s not made of stone. It hurts, y’know?

Coulson scrubbed his hand over his face and took another steadying breath before describing the frantic search for alien artefacts he and the others had gone through. After learning of HYDRA’s involvement, they’d tried desperately to keep anything with alien writing out of the organisation’s hands. But it was difficult.

The name of S.H.I.E.L.D. was tarnished now, forcing them to work in secret. Time after time they lost good agents. Agents they couldn’t afford to lose; people they had no desire to lose. HYDRA was bigger, had more resources. It also had Daniel Whitehall, a Nazi scientist who was driven by his obsession with longevity,  _his_  longevity, and something called the Obelisk or Diviner and its effects on humans.

And he would do anything to get it.

To be honest, HYDRA alone would have been enough to contend with, but Skye’s father appeared on the scene and that was... unexpected. For everyone. Including Skye.

Until now, his identity was unknown as was the fact he was still alive. It was clear though he wanted his daughter back and, like Whitehall would do anything to get her, even if that meant working with Raina and assisting HYDRA to get the Obelisk. In the end, it was Ward who had taken Skye to see her father. But he was getting ahead of himself.

The information Coulson had uncovered during his search through classified files, disclosed nothing about Skye’s parents. She had been found abandoned by a S.H.I.E.L.D. team investigating a small village in the Chinese Province of Hunan. The rest of the village was dead, thought to have been slaughtered by HYDRA agents. There was no sign of her father, and her mother was presumed to be amongst the murdered villagers.

Also revealed in the report was Skye’s 0-8-4 status, something he’d done his best not to rattle her with when he handed her the information. Sadly, according to Skye, his attempt had been an “ _epic_  fail”.

The team brought her back to the US handing her over to the Saint Agnes Orphanage to be raised by nuns as Mary Sue Poots to keep her identity, and her possible alien origin, hidden. From then on she'd bounced between foster homes never really being a “good fit” for adoption. When Coulson found her she’d been living in her van as a hacktivist making podcasts for the Rising Tide.

Coulson risked a quick look at Clint. He was aware Skye and Clint had clicked when they paired up to extract him from Hotel HYDRA. He was cluing him in about her childhood with her blessing (hell, it had actually been Skye’s idea). He was curious if her story was what had triggered Clint’s murderface, currently in place and looking particularly charming this afternoon.

“Thanks by the way,” he said, dragging Clint back to the present.  

“What for?” Clint asked, his nose scrunching up in a confused frown. Finding out about the similarities of his background and Skye’s made him wonder if they'd sensed something familiar in each other on the quinjet. It would explain, in part at least, why they'd gotten along so easily. Well, after his initial reluctance and acting like a giant douche.

“For misleading Skye about the bullet in my ass,” Coulson clarified, ignoring the way his heart skipped a beat at Clint’s wrinkled nose, something he found to be another of his endearing qualities. “She keeps staring at it. I’ve tried telling her it was actually my hip but… not sure she’s convinced.”

Clint at least had the decency to blush. He covered his snort of laughter behind his bottle of water. “Maybe she’s staring ‘cause you have a nice ass.”

Coulson ducked his head and said, “Suuure. That’s it. Jerk.”

Clint’s grin broadened as the tips of Coulson’s ears glowed a pretty shade of red. This playful banter leading to shameless flirting was another reason he missed the hell out of Phil. No other handler had put up with it for long, certainly never joined in with the deadpan snark that Phil could do so effortlessly. It hit him hard in his chest just how much he'd missed everything about him, including those telltale ears of his.

“And thank you. For coming to get me,” Coulson added quietly, tilting his head to the side to look up at Clint. “I didn't get much of a chance to say before going all…” he mimed an explosion at his temple with his hand.

 _Or before I left without giving you the chance_ , Clint thought but didn't voice.

He nodded unable to say anything for fear of giving himself away. He wanted to reach out and hold Phil’s hand. To reassure him. To encourage him. Hell, just to feel his warm skin beneath his touch. But he was too uncertain of his welcome. And maybe too afraid. Instead, he listened.

Coulson took a drink of water and somberly recalled his second session in the machine. The memories that returned were traumatic, revealing  _all_  the T.A.H.I.T.I test subjects had been haunted by the alien writing. It was painful to witness - especially as he was instrumental in putting them all through it - but it helped him resolve the meaning of the symbols that had become part of his life for so long, leading him to discover that they weren’t writing at all but blueprints to an underground Kree city, later located during a recon mission under the fort of Saint Cristobal in Puerto Rico.

He couldn’t explain why but once the mystery of the symbols had been solved, the compulsion to write was gone. He would never be able to describe the relief he felt at the realisation.

Downside? It meant tricking Skye and locking her up in Vault D at the Playground; being captured and held by one of project T.A.H.I.T.I.’s last remaining survivors; almost having the symbols carved into his skin before being murdered like most of the test subjects. None of which he was particularly proud of but at least being hooked up to it a second time paid off in the long run.

The others weren't overly thrilled with his actions at that point. Going off the grid to tackle a serial killer alone while being half out of his own mind had not endeared him to anyone. It was a very pissed off team that realised what was going on and pulled together to rescue him from what could have been a grizzly end… only to be caught up in another shitstorm. One that involved the biggest operation they’d been through as a team so far - the confrontation between S.H.I.E.L.D., HYDRA, and Kree forces that had been hibernating for centuries, maybe even thousands of years - all linked to the Obelisk and the underground City.

The hard-won battle had culminated in success, of a sort, for S.H.I.E.L.D. before ending in grief and tragedy with the loss of Trip. It was a devastating blow for everyone and one from which they were all still reeling.


	10. Chapter 10

“Hey, you okay? Clint?”

Clint didn’t answer. Under the table, his hands were shaking. Phil had just told him about his death and resurrection; the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rise of HYDRA; his betrayal by friends and the loss of teammates; the physical and mental torture he’d suffered at so many hands under so many guises. He’d bared his fucking soul. And he was asking Clint if  _he_  was okay?

Pale and bewildered, he told Phil as much.

“Any reason why I shouldn’t ask?” Coulson said gently. “It’s just… you haven’t said a lot and… I kinda wondered.”

“I don’t know how you can sit there so fucking calm about it all an’… an’ be worried about me.”

Stomach rolling, Clint pushed himself off his seat and stumbled over to the countertop where Phil had been standing earlier.

Coulson blinked at his reaction. That was Clint in a nutshell. Surprised that someone could or  _would_  care about him. But to Coulson, Clint had always been worth caring about. He’d always been more than just an asset. And as much as he may appear calm on the outside, Clint had no idea how close he was to actually losing it.

Ironically, worrying about Clint was the only thing holding him together. He’d never talked about any of this so openly before. Bits and pieces here and there. But never like this… And in truth, it almost broke him.

And Clint apparently.

Coulson was afraid talking of his death on the helicarrier had forced Clint to dredge up memories of Loki and what he’d been compelled to do under the Trickster’s control. It hadn’t been his intention for Clint to remember all that shit again. In fact, it was the last thing he wanted. Fuck! What the hell had he been thinking, coming here?

Filled with remorse, he followed Clint to where he leaned against the worksurface careful not to get too close.

Clint’s back was to Phil, his hands clutching the edge of the counter as he fought to get his breathing under control. He had so many questions. About Trip and Skye and that slimy motherfucker Ward. About Phil’s injuries. About so many damn things. 

It was overwhelming.

He hadn’t had a panic attack in a long time and guessed he was probably overdue for one. Until Phil uttered the magic words.

“Clint, talk to me.”

It wasn’t a command. Coulson’s voice was too gentle, too full of concern for it to be that but it took Clint back to the days of Strike Team Delta when Phil would say that phrase to get a sitrep from him. Or to focus him. Or simply keep him calm.

And it worked now too.

His body became less tense and he wanted to open up. To tell Phil everything he was feeling right now having heard all the shit Phil had been through. All the shit  _he’d_  been through since his mind-rape by Loki and the Battle of New York. And he would. Just… not now.

So, he kept it simple. Kept to the truth.

“I didn’t know. There’s been so much happen to you and I didn’t know. None of us knew.”

Coulson reached out to touch Clint’s shoulder but his hand remained hovering just above it. Even though he longed to comfort him, he didn’t know if he should. Didn’t know if he had the right. After a moment’s uncertainty, he lowered his hand clenching it into a fist instead.

“That’s not your fault, Clint,” Coulson told him. “That’s on me.”

He sounded so lost. So tired. Suddenly not the cool, unflappable senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent but just a mortal who’d been through one shitstorm after another and somehow managed to survive. And Clint ached for him.

“I’m sorry I left,” Clint blurted out, turning to face him. He looked panicked, reacting like he was about to run. The way he used to run when he first came to S.H.I.E.L.D. so many years ago. Like he’d done back at the Playground. 

But they were in  _his_  home. In  _his_  kitchen. And that brought him some measure of strength. Enough to keep him from bolting out the door at least.

Clint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that was as well-known to Coulson as his own quirks. It was an old habit that caused a dull ache in his chest when he realised just how much he’d missed it. It could mean so many things with Clint: embarrassment, shyness, shame. Sometimes just a reluctance to speak. Coulson wasn’t sure which one it was now. It could be any. It could be all.

“I think that’s my line,” he said softly, bowing his head before tilting it to the side looking up at Clint. His eyes were sad and full of apology.

Clint stared back at him. “No. Your line is –   _I’m sorry I died then came back and didn’t tell you… ‘cuz I’m an asshole_.”

A tiny ghost of a smile played across Coulson’s lips as he answered, “I  _was_  an asshole. But… I like to think I’ve grown since then.”

“In a couple of months?”

“Hey! A lot can happen in a couple of months! Actually…” Coulson paused thoughtfully and raised an eyebrow. “… a lot  _did_  happen in a couple of months.”

“Yeah, it did,” Clint said gently, taking a step towards him.

As Coulson had done with him, Clint reached out to touch Coulson’s bruised face but stopped before his fingers made contact, still afraid of what happened the last time. After the briefest hesitation, Coulson took the last step forward to lean into Clint’s palm.

“I’m okay now.” Coulson’s voice was strained, more evidence of how emotionally wrung out he was. He would never have let it show otherwise.

In a gesture of reassurance, he placed his hand over Clint’s and closed his eyes, taking pleasure in his gentle caress instead of fearing it. Something shifted inside him. Righted itself. It seemed the end of the hypergraphia had completed some kind of loop, ending whatever was triggering the blinding pain that had surged through him back at the Playground.

“Are you?” Clint whispered back, his own voice cracking but so full of hope.

With great care and tenderness, he rubbed his thumb against Phil’s cheekbone. There was no cry of pain. He didn’t collapse to the floor in agony. It seemed Phil truly was himself again. Clint’s breath hitched when he sighed with relief.

They moved into the comfort of each other’s embrace. Clint’s left hand cupped the back of Phil’s head, fingers skimming through his short hair. His other arm wrapped around his shoulders bringing him close, holding him as though afraid to let him go. Phil’s hands were on Clint’s hips before sliding around his back in a tight hug. His nose was tucked into the crook of Clint’s neck breathing him in, the scent of soap and hard work, of cooking and coffee all centring him.

“You asshole,” Clint murmured, pressing his lips against Phil’s hair. Damn, he smelled so good. But then he always smelled good.

“Yeah.” Phil huffed out a small, shaky laugh that cracked into a broken sob. “I’m sorry, Clint. I’m so sorry.”


	11. Chapter 11

Clint held Phil to him as the last of his control fell apart. Eyes welling up and spilling over, he did his best to cry silently and remain strong while Phil’s body shook with tears that had been suppressed for too long. He rubbed Phil’s back, his palm gently stroking up and down the curve of his spine trying to soothe the violent sobs that wracked his frame.

“I got ya,” he whispered into his hair. “You did good. I got ya now.”

Phil’s fingers twisted into Clint’s t-shirt, desperately clinging to him until the sobbing hitched into snuffles, eventually slowing to deep, exhausted breaths against Clint’s neck.

The pair stood together, battered and raw. 

The morning had been an anxious time for both of them after Phil’s phone call. Feelings of anticipation clashed with a certain dread at what was to come. Each brimmed with hope but accepted there was always a chance of recrimination and rejection. Phil knew Clint had every right to send him packing; two years was a long time without word of his being alive. Clint believed Phil would hate him for leaving him without giving him a chance to explain. 

The last few hours had been difficult too; for Phil recounting his experiences and Clint hearing about them. But it was out now. For better or worse, Clint was aware of much of what had happened since Loki’s brutal assault on the helicarrier, and since they’d last seen each other at the Playground. It was a lot to take in. A lot to deal with. But there was the real possibility they  _could_ do it and maybe even do it together.

After a few minutes, or perhaps an eternity, Phil broke the silence.

“Skye told me what happened on board the quinjet after my extraction,” he murmured into Clint’s neck. Clint barely managed to hold back a shiver at Phil’s warm breath ghosting over his skin. He was hoarse from the release of his pent-up emotions but his voice was clear enough for Clint to understand, even with Phil’s head tucked in against him. “ _That’s_ what I’d become. Violent. Unpredictable. Obsessed.”

He paused. He had no desire to tell Clint the next part but he knew he had to.

“The team wasn’t just there to investigate 0-8-4s and unexplained events. They were there to put me down if they had to. If… I couldn’t control the madness. Fury wanted me to live but… not if I went the same way as the others. That’s why I stayed away, Clint. Didn’t want you to see that. Didn’t want you to experience it. And… I feel sick I came after you with the scalpel. I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d hurt you. If I’d …”

“Don’t Phil,” Clint interrupted. He carefully pulled away to cup Phil’s face in his hands, gently tilting it up to look at him. As he wiped the tears from Phil’s cheeks with his thumbs, taking care with the cuts and bruises, Clint’s heart wrenched at the suffering in his expression. “You didn’t know what you were doing. I don’t think you even knew it was me.”

“That’s it though, Clint,” he said with pain and sadness in his voice. In his eyes. “I did. I just… I couldn’t stop it. The compulsion was too strong.”

Clint knew all too well how that felt. He’d tried so hard to fight Loki but the trickster’s control over him had been too powerful. His stomach churned at the memory while his heart ached for Phil.

“Ah fuck, Phil,” he said softly, and before he could think about it, Clint was kissing him putting as much love and reassurance into it as he could.

Phil froze but when Clint tried to pull away, angry and embarrassed at himself for his presumption, Phil’s hand held him in place with a loose grip on the back of his neck as he returned the kiss. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly, pressing his lips a little more firmly against Clint’s letting him know he was definitely okay with it. Relieved, Clint dropped his hands to Phil’s hips, moving closer to him, and relaxed into it. The kiss was gentle and slow and wonderful. Clint hummed in contentment, happy he’d been accepted and not rejected.

Before it could progress into something deeper and more heated, they broke apart but didn’t pull away from each other. They stood with their foreheads touching, arms wrapped loosely around each other. Neither spoke. Everything that needed to be said had been poured into the kiss.

Clint could have stayed like that forever, feeling the heat from Phil’s body seep into his own but he wanted…  _needed_ to make sure Phil was going to be okay. He’d never seen him break like this before. The mask of calm invincibility always remained in place no matter how tough things got on a mission, but he was glad to have been Phil’s support when he needed it now.

Phil flinched and quickly stifled a pained grunt when Clint gave him a tight hug as he stepped back. Clint winced himself, annoyed that he’d forgotten Phil had been injured recently.

“Shit! Did I hurt you?”

Phil scrubbed his hand over his face wiping away the last of his tears. He ducked his head and glanced up at Clint giving him a small smile, somehow managing to make it bashful and fond at the same time.

“I’m fine,” he said. It’s not like he was badly injured. He only had some bruising… okay, a lot of bruising. Perhaps  _that’s_ what he didn’t want Clint to see. His vulnerability. Which was insane. He’d just had a meltdown in front of him. He couldn’t get much more vulnerable than that.

Clint narrowed his eyes with suspicion. Senior Agent Phil “Badass” Coulson would say “I’m fine” even as he was bleeding out from a bullet or knife wound. Fuck knows, he’d seen him do it.

“Maybe you should let me decide that. Take your shirt off,” he said. It wasn’t quite an order but it was pretty close.

Phil raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m  _fine_ ,” he insisted quietly, making no move to follow Clint’s almost-command. It was eerily reminiscent of something May had said to him back on the Bus when he’d admitted he felt different after his revival. After Loki.

“Okay, now I’m worried. Let me see,” Clint growled taking a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

Phil’s stomach growled back at him. Both his and Clint’s eyes opened wide at the ferocity of the sound.

“The fuck was that?” Clint asked, more than a little disturbed by the unexpected noise.

Phil gave him a wary but amused look and deadpanned, “Apparently you can argue with me or feed me. But both? Not so much. And right now,” Phil dropped his gaze to his belly, “kinda hoping you pick feed.”

It seemed Clint’s stomach agreed as it too gave a mighty rumble. That resulted in a weird hiccough-laugh from Phil which eased the tension in Clint’s shoulders a little.

“Shit! Okay,” he conceded with a snort of his own. Suddenly very much aware he was hungry too, he gave up his attempt to glare Phil into submission. Temporarily. He wasn’t quitting just yet.

“But we’re going back to this later, yeah?” he said, firmly.

Reluctantly Phil nodded. He knew Clint had seen the scars on his chest and back at the HYDRA base and it shouldn’t bother him for Clint to see them now but… this was different somehow. This time it was a conscious decision on his part to reveal them. This time he would be able to see Clint’s reaction.

Unaware of Phil’s inner turmoil, Clint nodded back satisfied.

“Look, it’s gonna take a little while before we can eat. You wanna take a shower? Not that you smell bad or anythin’. You always smell good. Fuck! I mean, you might wanna, y’know…” Clint snapped his mouth shut and turned away, embarrassed. His mouth got ahead of his brain sometimes.

Shattered emotionally and physically, Phil still managed to smile, a small but genuine one. He sensed Clint needed some time alone to process what he’d been told, even for a short time. And it would allow  _him_ to gather himself. Get himself under control again. And honestly, a shower right now sounded pretty damned good

He reached out and lightly touched his fingertips to Clint’s forearm. Clint started, and turned his head to look down at Phil’s hand. With Clint’s eyes following the movement, Phil slid his fingers down his wrist until he caught his hand and held it gently in his own, brushing his thumb over Clint’s knuckles. He could just as easily have said Clint’s name to get his attention but he needed the skin contact. It was the first time he’d been brave enough to go through with initiating it and it felt…  _good_. He knew he’d done the right thing when he saw Clint’s surprised expression transform into a delighted one. 

“Shower would be dope,” Phil said, the corner of his mouth curling up in a half-smile as Clint’s nose wrinkled up with laughter. It had always been a good look on him.


	12. Chapter 12

“Timing’s great as always, bo…” Clint trailed off as he glanced over his shoulder when Phil entered the kitchen. Hair still slightly damp from the shower, he looked a lot better. In fact, he looked hot as fuck if Clint was being honest. He'd changed from his dress shirt and suit pants into a short-sleeved green t-shirt which pulled tight across his chest and black jeans that fitted him in all the right places. The v-neck showed a hint of chest hair and exposed the hollow of his throat both of which Clint immediately wanted to explore with his mouth. And tongue. And teeth. Aw brain, no!

“Uhh…” Clint was staring. Gawping actually. But he couldn't seem to pull his eyes away. It wasn't helped by the questioning frown Coulson gave him that formed a sexy little triangle of creases above his nose. Clint’s cock twitched in his jeans.

“Something wrong?” Phil asked, looking down at himself. “I can put on socks if you'd rather.”

Clint dropped his gaze. Oh shit! His feet were bare. Was there no end to this torture? Jesus! Didn't the man know how fucking gorgeous he was? No. It was Coulson. One of the smartest people he knew except when it came to how attractive people found him. Then he was just an oblivious dumbass.

“Uhh… I uhh…”  _Oh for fuck’s sake! Snap out of it, Barton_  he told himself. “Not seen you look quite so…” He waved his hand vaguely at Phil’s attire.

Phil smirked. “Pretty sure you've seen me wearing less than this.”

Clint felt himself flush. He had. Plenty of times. And, of course, New Mexico and Mojave immediately sprang to mind. But he wasn’t going to go there. He had no idea if Phil actually remembered that time between them. And much as he might want to, now wasn’t really the time to ask.

Besides naked wasn’t the issue. He liked naked just fine. He’d just never seen him look so… casual before. And now twice in one day. He liked it too. Liked it a lot.

“Shut up an’ sit your ass down,” he grumbled, lifting the casserole dish from the stove setting it between them on the kitchen table.

Still smirking, Phil did as he was told, resuming his place while Clint dished up.

They didn’t speak for a couple of minutes, instead shovelling forkfuls of thick, tasty stew full of tender vegetables and chunks of melt-in-the-mouth beef, along with freshly baked bread still warm from the oven, into their faces.

“Mmmm. So good,” groaned Phil in between mouthfuls.

He closed his eyes savouring the rich flavours as they danced over his tongue doing the tango on his taste buds. It had been quite a while since he’d eaten so well. No disrespect to the guys back at the Playground but this was homemade by Clint, whose stews and casseroles had no rival, and not made by someone (himself included) whose enthusiasm outweighed their cooking skills for a base full of people.

Clint tried not to focus on the noises Phil was making, the little hums and sighs of pleasure. They were very similar to noises Phil made at other times. Nekked times. He shut down that train of thought immediately. Nope. Not going there.

Emotionally Clint was all over the place, like a hormonal teenager. Angry, anxious, mopey, happy, horny (which also made him sound like five of the seven dwarves from fucking Snow White)… and guess which emotion was fighting for the win? He blamed Phil. Phil and his stupid, sexy, naked feet.

To distract himself and at the same time mentally dowsing his libido with a bucket of ice water, he took a sip from the beer he’d put out for himself and Phil and told him he had a couple of questions.

“Just a couple?” Phil answered, the corner of his mouth curving up in a teasing smile.

Clint shrugged. “For now.”

Catching the slight shift in mood, Phil acknowledged Clint’s words with a single nod. “Fire away,” he told him.

Even with permission to ask, Clint was still hesitant. “I guess… Skye. Is she okay?”

Phil paused thoughtfully mid-chew before nodding again. “She will be. Right now, she’s still in quarantine. Jemma wanted to make sure she wasn’t suffering any long-term effects from the Kree temple. She’s coming to terms with what happened but... it’s been difficult. She and Trip were close.”

And that was another thing. He hadn’t really known he bright, young agent whose grin, along with Skye’s sass, had lessened his foul humour on the ‘jet but he was genuinely saddened by the news of his death.

“Yeah… I’m sorry about Trip.”

“Everyone’s still pretty raw from it,” Phil said quietly, his expression sombre. “Gonna take a long time to come to terms.”

The loss of any agent on his watch Coulson took personally but the loss of Antoine Triplett, grandson of one of the revered Howling Commandos and who brought “the noise and the funk” with him wherever he went, would always weigh heavily upon him.

He dropped his gaze and sat back in his chair, resting his fork against the bowl. Eyes remaining downcast, he told Clint what transpired in the caverns in a little more detail.

“He’d followed Skye to the underground Kree city. Became trapped with her and Raina in the temple. Seems all three of them had become encased in stone by a terrigen crystal concealed inside the Diviner Raina had taken from Skye’s father. When the terrigenesis was triggered, they survived but Trip… died when a fragment of the casing hit him.”

“Fuck! That’s... I’m sorry,” Clint said. Even to his own ears, it sounded pretty lame. Clint’s stomach lurched a little at having reminded Phil of it. He knew how invested he became in the people under his command.

“He seemed like a good kid. Brave too,” he added. “He piloted the quinjet when we came to get you. Did a real good job.”

That made Phil smile if a little sadly. “Skye told me.” After a moment he asked, “Did you know he was Gabe Jones’ grandson?”

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise. “The Howling Commando?”

“The very same.”

“Shit! You must have fanboyed over that.”

A warm blush spread across Phil’s cheeks and his smile widened a little more. “Not quite to Captain America levels of embarrassment but… we talked. He reminisced about the stories his grandfather had told him. I think he got almost as much out of it as I did.”

For a time as they ate, Phil spoke fondly of Trip making himself and Clint laugh when he recounted the time they spent in the motel after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. He’d brought his grandfather's case full of early S.S.R gadgets. Both he and Fitz had geeked out as Trip revealed the contents until Fitz managed to set fire to the drapes with a cigarette laser. Phil had plucked it from the young engineer’s fingers before he did any more damage, and Trip imposed a ‘look but don't burn the motel down’ rule on him.

“He was different then?” Clint asked around another mouthful of food.

Phil frowned at the question. “Who? Fitz?”

Clint nodded. When Clint met Fitz at the Playground he seemed... sullen and angry. Not really someone he could imagine getting excited over gadgets with any enthusiasm unless he was dissecting them.

“Yeah,” Phil admitted, sadly. “Less damaged. But... Ward hadn’t tried to kill him and Jemma at that point.”

Clint looked horrified at his response. That sick motherfucker got everywhere.

Phil shrugged and shook his head not wanting to go there right now.

“Another time maybe. Suffice to say, guy’s a psychopath who did his best to destroy my team every way possible.” He jabbed a piece of beef with his fork with a ferocity that was unwarranted but apparently necessary. “If I ever get that chance to take him out… I will  _end_  that fucker’s life. As painfully as possible.”

Clint totally understood but the cold, calculating way Phil said it, saddened him. He was well aware of what Phil was capable of. He’d heard fantastic tales whispered in hushed tones in the corridors of S.H.I.E.L.D. and, on a couple of occasions, actually witnessed him dispense justice - or exact revenge depending on your viewpoint - on those who’d harmed or threatened any of his teams, including Delta. He had no doubts Phil would do it again if he was pushed. But it pained him to see him so devoid of emotion while talking about taking someone's life, even if it was the Nazi dickface.

It seemed May was right. He  _had_  changed in the last couple of years.

They fell quiet for a time, each lost in their own thoughts while they ate. It wasn’t the companionable silence they used to enjoy when they were together as handler and asset but surprisingly, with the way the conversation had turned dark for a while there, it wasn’t as tense as it had been earlier.

After the pair devoured a second helping each, Clint finally admitted defeat. He set his fork down in the empty bowl and dropped back in his seat with a contented sigh. Phil gave him a grin and finished the last of his stew mopping up the gravy with some of the bread Clint had made.

“That was perfect,” Phil told him, his mood appearing lighter than before. “Thanks, Clint.”

Clint smiled, pleased at the compliment and happy Phil seemed more relaxed again.

“Yeah. Wasn’t bad,” he agreed modestly. “So, now I've silenced the growly-belly monster, we gonna put a dress on the elephant in the room?”

Phil stared at Clint with a raised eyebrow and a part-amused, part-horrified look on his face. “That… has to be the worst pun. Ever.”

“Yeah. Well. You'd know,” Clint retorted.

“The. Worst.”

“C’mon! You're like... the Pun King,” Clint protested.

“Exactly! And… I happily relinquish my crown.”

Clint flipped him off. “Fuck you! And stop deflecting."

They smiled at each other. The banter was good. Familiar.

“Okay, Clint. With me,” Phil said, subconsciously dropping into command mode. He stood and picked up his empty bowl and beer bottle taking them over to the sink. Surprised at the ease with which Phil had apparently given in, and the tone of his voice, Clint followed with his own.

“It looks worse than it is,” Phil said simply, turning to face him. “No broken bones, no cracked ribs, no internal damage.”

He took a deep breath and curled his fingers around the hem of his tee to lift it up, exposing his bruised and battered torso. Clint narrowed his eyes at the hue of colours that once again covered Phil’s body. Jesus! He looked like he'd been hit by a truck.

“Shit, Phil! Maybe wear your Kevlar next time,” Clint told him.

“I was.”

Clint shot him a look and Phil shrugged in response.

He nodded at the unasked question when Clint leaned down and flicked his eyes up to his. While Clint examined him, gently touching his fingers to his ribs, Phil started to explain how the damage had occurred. It began with him happening upon Skye’s father approaching Daniel Whitehall with a look of murder in his eyes before the doctor realised and drew a handgun on the other man.

“Hold that thought,” Clint interrupted and disappeared from the kitchen, leaving Phil confused and a little discomfited. He returned moments later with a half-used tube of cream in his hand. He held it up for Phil to see but he already knew what it was. Arnica.

“Might help,” he suggested with a shrug, holding it out to him.

With a slight hesitation but knowing Clint was right, Phil removed his t-shirt completely setting it down on the kitchen surface, and accepted it with a nod of thanks.

Clint leaned his hip against the edge and folded his arms across his chest watching Phil apply it carefully to his swollen and bruised ribs. Unwaveringly, he kept his gaze firmly locked on Phil’s face refusing to allow it to drop to his broad chest with its covering of dark, wiry hair. Nor did he allow himself to look at Loki’s scar.

“So, Skye’s old man an’ the Nazi doc,” he prompted gruffly, trying to ignore the feelings that were stirring inside him as Phil’s strong, competent hands glided over his body rubbing the cream into his skin in slow, careful circles working it into the painful muscles and bruises beneath the surface. He did his best not to imagine those hands moving over his body in the same way under different circumstances - but it was difficult not to.

Thankfully Phil didn’t seem to notice and picked up the story where he left off.

In an apparently misguided attempt to save Skye’s father’s life, he had taken Whitehall out with a single shot from behind and had been beaten almost unconscious for his efforts. Apparently Skye’s father, also Phil's attacker, had unfinished business with the HYDRA doctor and, unable to complete it, took his rage out on him instead. He’d managed to defend himself for a time but with the other man apparently having some kind of enhanced strength, he’d gotten the better of Phil eventually.

“His rage was... incredible. And… he wouldn’t stop. Just kept pounding his fists into my face, my head, my body. He wanted to kill me. He was  _going_  to kill me. If it hadn’t been for Skye…”

He trailed off knowing it was only Skye’s intervention at gunpoint that had saved his life.

Phil turned his gaze to Clint and gave him a sad look as he told him that in turn for saving him, it had cost Skye her father. She’d been forced into making a choice, ordering him away from Phil telling him she would kill him if he didn’t leave.

Clint frowned not knowing what to say. It was a hell of a decision for her to make - to pick her mentor over her father. But then she knew Phil. She knew she could trust him. Depend on him. She’d only just met her birth father and he was trying to kill the man who had taken her in and given her a home. A family. He remembered the way she'd held Phil's hand and stroked his forehead on the quinjet; the anger when she'd seen his injuries received at the hands of Ward; the way she'd protected him at the Playground during his hypergraphia.

Yeah, it was a hell of a decision but she’d made the only one she could.

After a moment Phil ducked his head and gave Clint a sideways glance, a strange expression passing over his features. Clint wasn’t sure what to make of it until Phil spoke, a note of apology in his voice.

“I, uh, can’t reach my back. I know it’s asking a lot but… if you wouldn’t mind?”

Ah. Clint hadn’t considered that. Shit! His mouth suddenly became dry. This was for medical purposes. There was going to be nothing weird (or sexy) in it. He could do this. Eventually, he managed to swallow and without looking Phil in the eye, he nodded taking the Arnica again when Phil held out the tube.

Phil turned his back to him, lowering his head, leaning forward to brace himself against the countertop. The knotted ridge of scar tissue Clint had seen a few months earlier had faded to a pale pink. Another year or so and it would be paler still like the other scars on Phil’s body. It was the purple and black bruising that looked mean as hell.

“Tell me if I hurt you, yeah?” he asked unable to hide the concern in his voice.

Phil nodded his body tensing slightly as he waited for Clint’s touch. When it came it was firm but not painful. He and Clint had treated each other's wounds in the field many times before and he told himself it was no different now.

Except it was.

He desperately tried to ignore the intimacy of the act but after all that had been said, all that had happened earlier, it seemed to make it more so. Clint’s warm, calloused hands felt amazing against his skin. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against any pitiful sounds that tried to slip past his lips, giving him away. The rash of goosebumps that broke out in the wake of Clint’s touch however he could do nothing about.

“This okay?” Clint asked quietly, gently rubbing the cream into the worst of the bruising on Phil’s shoulders and back. He tried not to dwell on the freckles he could see dotted here and there… or the goosebumps raising up all over; they probably didn't mean anything anyway. But the way the tense muscles slowly relaxed under his touch… Balls! This was a bad fucking idea. It was taking all his control not to lean forward and press his lips against Phil’s skin.

His voice tight, Phil answered, “It’s fine. Thank you.”

Fine? Sharp bursts of pain from his injuries aside, it was incredible and he could feel his cock stirring in his jeans as it took an interest in the proceedings. He frowned in concentration doing his best to will it away. In the meantime, hopefully, Clint would put the occasional hitches in his breath down to pain rather than pleasure. To distract himself from Clint’s confident hands and his own still-growing erection, he continued his account.

Skye had made sure he was okay before telling him she was going to “make things right”. She took off after Raina who’d managed to get her hands on the Diviner and was heading to a temple in the Kree city desperate to learn its secrets.

“Couldn’t let her go on her own, Clint,” Phil told him. “We’d rigged the place to blow. She didn’t know that. But… I hadn’t reckoned on the possibility of having to fight Mack as well. Mack’s mind had been taken over by some sort of entity, most likely a Kree guardian, and he attacked anyone who went near the place.”

Phil gave him a self-deprecating smile over his shoulder before turning his head forward again and adding, “In hindsight, not my greatest plan ever. But… he collapsed before anything happened. Turns out that was round about the time the terrigen mist was released in the temple. And… well, you know the rest.”

“Fuck, Phil! How do you even get into this shit? Pretty sure Nick didn’t come back to HQ in this state very often. Okay, you’re done,” he said, screwing the cap back on the tube and wiping his hands on a cloth. He was surprised his voice sounded so normal cuz  _fuck_! That had been challenging. He prayed Phil wouldn’t notice the hard outline of his dick in his jeans. He’d done his best to ignore it, but the feel of Phil’s skin beneath his hands had been too much for a time there.

Unknown to Clint, Phil was having similar thoughts and was grateful his own cock had calmed down to a manageable and hopefully less noticeable state. He turned slowly to face him keeping his expression inscrutable.

“Not much of a schemer,” he said with a shrug. “Nick laid plans and ran ops from Triskelion or the helicarrier. I’ve always been more… hands on. Agent or Director, I’m better in the field with my team.”

He gave Clint a wry smile before pulling his tee back over his head. “Doesn't always work out so well.”

Clint knew that. He knew better than most Phil Coulson was all about his people. Phil saw potential in them they didn’t realise they had. He had faith in them when they had none in themselves. He nurtured their talents and never gave up on them. He saw the value in what they did and where they would fit within a team. He gave them the confidence to push their limits ready to catch them if they fell. He became their teacher, their guide, their inspiration. He would fight to his last breath to protect them.

It’s why he’d fallen in love with him.

Fuck it!

Clint stepped into Phil’s space, grabbed a handful of his t-shirt, and leaned in to kiss him hard on the mouth. Eventually, he drew back and stared at him with such intensity it made Phil’s mouth dry and his heart race. Without saying a word, Clint let him go and turned away to walk out the front door, stopping only to pull on his boots and jacket.

Phil watched him leave with a dazed look and a faint smile. He knew where Clint was going. He’d spotted the archery range in the barn when he parked up in Lola. The range and numerous Hawkeye-type ‘perches’ up in the rafters.

He knew without a doubt Clint would be back when he was ready. And he’d be here when he did... however long it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shout out to my Tumblr Buddies who asked. My answer? A little bonus NSFW NC17 chapter it is then... See you next week. Same time, same place for the final installment. 
> 
> My thanks as always for reading, and for your comments and kudos. They really do mean so much and are always appreciated.


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Twelve was pretty much Phil and Clint's reconciliation and the end of the story. However, for those of you who would like the "resolution" of their reunion (thanks BA) tied up in a more NC17 NSFW way... read on (although there's no actual bondage involved just in case you thought... well, you know)
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading and for leaving kudos and such wonderful and encouraging comments. It's been a HUGE prompt fill and I've loved having you along for the ride. Enjoy the end of a new beginning...

Clint jogged from the house to the barn, exhaling plumes of breath into the sharp evening air. The cold nipped at his nose and mouth telling him more snow was on the way. Not that he gave a shit. He had other, more pressing concerns right now.

It wasn’t far but his heart raced by the time he reached the heavy wooden doors, mostly from the adrenaline still coursing through his system. He pulled one door open and dragged it to again falling against it as it banged shut behind him. The back of his head slammed hard against the boards and he winced at the dull pain it caused. On some level, he welcomed it too. What had he done? What the  _fuck_  had he done?

He hadn’t meant to kiss him. He’d been driven by instinct rather than design. A need to let Phil know how he felt. And Phil may have kissed him back but he’d looked surprised as fuck when Clint had pulled away. At least he hadn’t punched him in the face. That was something, right?

Clint squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. Way to go, Barton!

He needed to chill the fuck out. Get rid of some of the pent-up energy and these fucked-up emotions he was carrying around. A workout with Betsy would clear his head enough to get the blood circulating around his brain instead of his dick.

He slapped the switch for the lights on and headed for his workbench where he took a couple of deep breaths before settling down to prepare his bow. He cleaned and re-strung her, gently running his fingers over her curves searching for any blemishes. Gradually, the familiarity of routine had the calming effect he was hoping for and his body began to relax. When he’d finished, he shrugged out of his jacket and spent an hour or so practising, getting lost in the rhythm of nock, draw, loose while he did some thinking.

Some serious thinking...

No matter what his reasons were or how good they seemed, it still hurt that Phil had kept his being alive from him. Two years. Two fucking years.

Maybe it would always be a kick to the balls; maybe the pain would lessen with time. Either way, he knew he had to move past it. If he didn’t, it would consume him and he couldn’t let that happen. Not if he wanted Phil in his life. And that was the question. Did he?

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Yes.

Completely. Unequivocally. Heart pounding in his chest, yes.

And if they did, y’know… become a thing again, it would be all or nothing this time. There would be no keeping things from him. Not mission secrets, he wasn’t interested in those. Important shit like coming back from the dead. In fact, anything concerning his life and death, and everything in between was non-negotiable. He wasn’t going through that again. Ever.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

He understood they couldn’t be together like before when they were handler and asset. It was intense but uncomplicated back then. Phil was Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. now. He had more to worry about than a retired agent and Avenger who happened to be good with a bow. Well okay,  _awesome_  with a bow. Phil had the world to worry about. But he hoped he would find time for him in what was undoubtedly a busy schedule. A busy life. Maybe he could even visit him at the Playground. Get one of those lanyards from Billy. Clint smiled.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Of course, this was all dependent on Phil wanting him. And he had to, didn’t he? He’d come all this way to talk. No expectations, just to explain. Take him through all that had happened to him since he died.

He paused in his practice. Since he died. Fuck!

Breathe.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Yeah, so… you didn’t visit someone in the snowy, ass-end of Iowa in the dead of winter just for shits and giggles. Clint was pretty sure about that.

He was also pretty sure that Phil felt the same way he did. In fact, he was pretty damned positive Phil had been hard in his jeans when he rubbed Arnica into his shoulders and back. Not as hard as him maybe but there was definitely some action going on down there. And if that was the case, then maybe not all of those little hitches in his breath had been pain related.

Clint bit his lip. When he kissed him... there was no mistaking Phil had kissed him back.

Nock. Draw. Loose.

Shit! Nearly missed. Damn Phil Coulson! And his stupid, breathtaking kisses. And his equally stupid, breathtaking dick. He sighed and leaned his head against Betsy’s upper limb for a moment taking another few measured breaths until a mischievous grin appeared, slowly spreading across his face.

Maybe it was time to go back and do something about that.

*** *** ***

Phil had crashed out on the couch by the time Clint returned, lulled to sleep by the warmth and comforting sounds from log fire he’d set after Clint had left. Even now it kept the room cosy, crackling hypnotically in the hearth. He’d been reading something on his e-reader earlier but now it was clutched tight against his chest as he slumbered curled up on his side, his head resting on a cushion.

Clint looked down at him smiling fondly. He loved the way Phil’s features became soft and relaxed when he slept, the worry lines having fallen away.

He looked happy lying there. The light from the flames caught the upward curve of his mouth set in a little half-smile as they flickered across the contours of his face. It struck Clint once again how gorgeous Phil was with his crooked nose and the creases at the corners of his eyes which became deeper when he smiled or laughed. And when he smiled, especially at him, Clint’s world became that much brighter and more alive.

He’d forgotten that, and for a moment it saddened him.

He briefly considered waking Phil sending him upstairs to sleep in a proper bed but decided to leave him where he was while he took a shower. It had been an emotional rollercoaster of a day and he didn’t need to rouse him just yet. That he hadn’t woken with Clint standing watching him (not really as creepy as it sounded… probably) proved just how exhausted he must be.

And how safe he felt.

Field agents were always aware of their surroundings - had to be for obvious reasons - and would wake at the slightest perceived threat or the smallest sound. His smile widened a little more at that. Phil felt safe with him.

He reached out to stroke Phil’s head but turned away before his hand made contact.

*** *** ***

Fresh from his shower in shorts and an old, comfy t-shirt he used for sleeping, Clint padded downstairs with bare feet to check on Phil. Still curled up peacefully, he didn’t have the heart to wake him, much as he wanted to. Instead, he lifted the blanket from the back of the couch and carefully draped it over his sleeping form. He wasn’t expecting Phil’s fingers to catch his wrist before sliding down to curl around his hand.

Clint crouched down and looked into his blue/grey eyes. The mesmerising flecks of brown he remembered from years ago were as striking as ever. He’d noticed them earlier but somehow in the firelight, they became even more bewitching. He could lose himself in those eyes. Phil could say so much with them, express every emotion, say volumes in a way he couldn’t with words. And he was good with words.

“Hey,” Clint said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Phil smiled back at him. “Hey,” he echoed, his voice rough with sleep.

Clint rubbed his thumb across the back of Phil’s hand. “You don’ need to sleep on the couch. Y’know that, right?”

Phil’s smile grew wider, deepening the creases at the corners of his eyes. Clint’s heart fluttered while his stomach did backflips. Gorgeous.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep at all,” Phil answered apologetically.

“Yeah?”

“Was waiting for you.”

Without letting go of Clint’s hand, Phil uncurled from his position and sat up with a yawn. The lines pressed into the side of his face from the cushion really shouldn't have looked as adorable as they did. Nor should Phil's sleep-tousled hair, military short as it was.

Clint grinned up at him. “Should maybe get you to bed.”

Phil raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Re-e-eally?”

“Shut up,” Clint told him, his face heating in a way that was nothing to do with the warmth from the fire. He dropped his gaze and noticed his hand was still curled around Phil’s. Maybe he should let go now.

And perhaps he would have except Phil bent forward and gently touched his fingertips of his free hand to Clint’s cheek, brushing his thumb along his bottom lip. He cupped his chin, leaning nearer to place his mouth against Clint’s. Before their lips met, Phil spoke softly, just loud enough for Clint to hear.

“Is this okay?”

After a heartbeat’s pause, Clint gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head which anyone else would probably have missed. Phil, having been reading Clint for years, caught the gesture with ease. And it meant everything to him.

The kiss was slow and tender and perfect. Just a gentle press of lips but somehow all the more intense for it. It didn’t last long, just enough for Phil to convey his feelings, and for Clint to willingly return them.

When they parted, neither of them spoke content just to bask in the silence and warmth, forehead resting against forehead, fingers threaded together. Eventually, Clint realised if there was ever the right time for him to ask, it was now.

“Do you remember us?” he asked in a hushed voice, suddenly afraid of what Phil might say.

“Some,” Phil told him softly, knowing Clint meant the times they'd been together. “The second time in the machine let me see flashes. Puente Antiguo. The Pegasus facility. No complete memories. Just… glimpses of us.”

“Tell me,” Clint whispered. His fingers tightened around Phil’s without his realising.

“I remember kissing you,” Phil said, keeping his voice gentle. “My hands touching your face, my mouth on yours.”

He pulled back slightly to look at Clint, his eyes glinting in the light from the fire. His tongue darted out to run along his upper lip while he lowered his eyes to stare at Clint’s mouth. “I remember the way you moaned when I sucked on your tongue.”

Clint’s breath caught in his throat. Phil’s voice was still soft, reassuring almost but his words were seductive, promising something more. Something darker. A flame of desire sparked in the pit of Clint’s belly fanned by the movement of Phil’s tongue when it wet his lips. He shifted his body closer, hands resting on Phil’s knees.

“Show me,” he urged, his voice ragged but eager.

Phil looked at him a little longer as though memorising every feature, every contour and crease of his face then reached out to cradle it in both hands, thumbs gently stroking along Clint’s cheekbones. He closed his eyes and leaned in, tilting his head to kiss him, his lips parting slightly pressing a touch more firmly against Clint’s, letting it build at its own pace.

Slow. Deliberate. Sensual.

His tongue traced over Clint’s lips before tentatively dipping inside to explore the warm, wet heat of his mouth. The tip touched Clint’s then stroked along its length, teasing and caressing it, curling under and around it until, finally, Phil drew it into his mouth sucking on it, hungry and demanding, stoking the fire in Clint’s belly until it blazed and roared threatening to consume him.

Clint moaned against Phil’s lips precisely the way he remembered, low and full of lust and desire. The familiar sound travelled straight to Phil’s cock.

Clint dropped to his knees between Phil’s legs. His hands gripped Phil’s forearms before sliding up to his biceps trying to anchor himself as he was caught up and swept away by the intensity of the kiss. His own tongue plundered Phil’s mouth, licking and thrusting inside pulling noises from him that were just as deep and just as filthy as his own.

Eventually, they parted a second time, hearts pounding, breath coming in short, hurried gasps.

“Jesus, Phil,” Clint panted, bracing himself against Phil’s thighs. He was hard in his sleep shorts, a damp patch appearing where the pre-come had seeped through. His cock throbbed in time to the beat of his heart still thundering in his chest.

Phil wasn't finished sharing his memories. He kissed along Clint’s jaw, mouthing at the soft skin below his ear where he murmured, “I remember how responsive you were, arching into my touch, your body asking for more. The way you came apart under my fingers. My mouth.  _My cock_.”

Phil breathed the last two words into Clint’s ear. He shuddered, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp.

“Show me,” he repeated, this time with a desperate urgency to his voice. In one fluid motion, he rose up from his knees to straddle Phil’s thighs pulling his t-shirt over his head, dropping it on the couch.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” Phil sighed, taking in the sight of Clint’s body, the muscles flexing and rippling as he moved. His tongue flicked out to lick his lips again while he admired the outline of Clint’s erection… and the enticing wet patch. He longed to get his mouth on his dick or sink his cock deep into his tight, incredible ass but he would play this out however Clint wanted it. How far this went was Clint’s decision, not his.

He skimmed his hands up and down the sides of Clint’s torso leaning forward to plant hungry kisses onto the warm skin. He licked and nipped his way across to an already pebbled nipple catching it with his teeth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. He remembered Clint’s nipples, like his own, were sensitive and he loved to be touched there. He would gasp and moan and curse when Phil laved them with his tongue and sucked them into his mouth biting down on them gently… or roughly. That one time had Clint coming so hard he almost passed out.

Clint writhed on Phil’s lap letting his head fall back, his hands grasping Phil’s shoulders as he ground his cock against Phil’s, just as full and equally as hard.

“Jesus, Phil,” he whimpered again. He’d missed this. He’d missed everything about having Coulson in his life but  _fuck_  did this man know how to turn him on.

“Good?” Phil asked him, not bothering to wait for a reply before taking Clint’s other nipple into his mouth, his nails scratching lightly over the wide, muscled planes of his back.

Clint gasped and moaned over him, a full body shudder rolling down his spine. “So fucking good.”

Clint rolled his hips, pressing his cock harder into Phil’s while Phil kissed up Clint’s chest to the curve of his neck, grazing the skin with his teeth, licking and sucking hard enough to raise a mark that would last for days. He wrapped his arms around Clint’s back, kneading the muscles of his shoulder with his fingertips.

Clint nuzzled Phil’s hair and whispered, “Want you to fuck me.”

That brought Phil up short. He pulled away to look at Clint, his eyes wide with surprise and maybe a little hope.

“You... really want that?” he asked unable to keep the doubt from his voice.

Clint smiled down at him. “You’re not off my shitlist but you’re not at the top anymore either.” More seriously he added, ”We’ve lost so much time, Phil. Don’t wanna lose any more. So, yeah I want this an’ I think maybe you do too.”

Oh boy, did he? Phil showed him just how much by gripping the back of Clint’s neck, drawing him down to devour him in a heated kiss, moaning into his mouth as he did so. Clint kissed him back every bit as enthusiastically, his fingers twisting into Phil’s t-shirt... right up to the point Phil pulled back again as something clearly dawned on him.

“Shit!” he muttered, breathing hard. The tell-tale muscle in his jaw bunched into a hard knot. He seemed exasperated with himself.

Clint frowned at him with concern, and maybe a little frustration. Being tongue fucked by Phil was one of his top five things, like ever. And neither death nor time had dulled his technique.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, panting a little himself.

Phil shrugged and looked at him with a wide-eyed expression that conveyed nothing but honesty and a total lack of guile. “I came here with no expectations, Clint. Just... to talk. I, uh… guess I wasn’t prepared for this. Didn’t bring any supplies.”

Awww. That was so Phil, taking responsibility for something he had no control over. Clint couldn’t resist teasing him. Just a little.

“You’re makin’ some pretty big assumptions there, Son of Coul,” he mock-chided in a disappointed voice. “What makes you think  _I’m_  not prepared?”

“Huh,” Phil replied, his eyebrows raised. Tables nicely turned. He blushed and a bashful half-smile curled up the corner of his mouth.

Clint stayed still for a moment, a subtle tension building in his body as he appeared to mull something over. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck struggling to voice his thoughts. Phil could feel a wave of seriousness wash over the archer but he didn't push, sitting patiently instead, gently stroking his back. He knew whatever Clint wanted to say would come out when he was ready.

Clint glanced up at him and said shyly, “I, uh… there's… there's been no-one else. Since you I mean. There's been no-one since you. So… if you want to… y’know...” He shrugged leaving Phil to work out the rest.

No condom.

Phil was overwhelmed by Clint’s trust. And his invitation. He carefully touched his hand to Clint’s cheek and gazed at him, his eyes shining with emotion.

“Same,” he said. “I haven’t…” He trailed off. Suddenly he was a kid again barely out of his teens during his first sexual encounter. Tongue-tied and uncertain. “I… don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, if you want to.” Now the hope was in Clint’s eyes. There was no doubt in Phil’s mind Clint truly wanted this… and how intimate a gesture this was.

“Yes.”

The tension in Clint’s shoulders fell away and he rested his forehead against Phil’s again. Their default position. Their safe place.

“Still need lube though, huh?” And with that, the quiet intimacy of the moment was gone replaced by something lighter, more flirtatious once more. Clint dealt with his emotions better like that.

Phil huffed out a quiet laugh. “Uh...yeah.”

With a playful nip at Phil’s lips, Clint slid off his lap and headed for the kitchen before he paused in mid-stride and called over his shoulder, “Lose the clothes, yeah?”

Phil smirked and did as he was told, the scars on his chest and back barely crossing his mind. It was the first time in a long time.

Clint reappeared moments later, a towel and bottle of olive oil in hand. And bare-assed nekked. Apparently, he'd taken his own advice losing his shorts in the kitchen during his search and retrieve mission.

With zero subtlety, he licked his lips at the sight of Phil before him, drawing him closer like a moth to a flame. Neither the scars nor the bruises could disguise how gorgeous he was. All broad shoulders and wide chest. A little grey weaved its way through the dark, wiry hair nowadays but it was still sexy as fuck. As was the hard-on that had been freed from the confinements of his jeans now curving up towards his belly.

He approached Phil like a predatory animal, drinking in his nude form with lust in his eyes leaving Phil with no doubt about what was to come. He welcomed it gladly.

“Nat’ll kill you if you get jizz or oil on her throw,” Clint warned him, giving him a gentle but determined shove onto the couch to straddle his lap again. He dropped the towel and bottle of olive oil within easy reach and leaned down to capture Phil’s mouth in a demanding kiss.

“I’ll bear that in mind but... my dick will be too deep in your ass to matter, Barton,” Phil retorted, sliding his hands up Clint’s thighs pressing his fingertips into the hard muscle. “It’s your come you should be worried about.”

Clint sat back and grinned. “Such a dirty mouth, Phil Coulson. Throw’s safe from me. Gonna be aiming for your chest an’ you know I never miss.”

They launched into another searing kiss, mouths open, tongues exploring, dragging breathy sighs and hungry gasps from each other. Clint picked up where he left off, grinding his cock into Phil’s, the sensation of the hot, silky skin dragging together making him moan. Clint smiled against Phil’s lips and rolled his hips again.

“You like this?”

“Hate it,” Phil snarked, his face telling a very different story. “but... I guess I can tough it out.”

Clint reached for the olive oil, pouring a small amount into his palm before wrapping his fist around both their cocks stroking them at a slow, teasing pace. Phil arched into his touch, head falling back against the couch, breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.

“Guess you’re not a big fan of this either,” Clint taunted. Phil grunted in response and thrust into Clint’s fist. He pulled himself up with his abs, sliding his hands up Clint’s thighs around to his ass where he grabbed handfuls of flesh, not painfully but not gently either.

“If I remember correctly, you said something about me fucking you,” Phil growled into Clint’s ear. Clint shivered as his tongue swirled around the shell then yelped when Phil nipped roughly on his lobe.

“Getting impatient, Agent Coulson?” Clint gasped. Fuck, that was hot! Phil had usually been in charge during their encounters in the desert but this teasing, playfully dominant side was new. He liked it.

“I have the patience of a saint, Specialist Barton,” Phil informed him, sucking Clint’s smarting lobe into his mouth, soothing it with his tongue. Another series of shivers cascaded down Clint’s spine thanks to Phil’s talented mouth.

“And the cock of a demon. Ahhhhh!” Clint sighed as Phil’s finger circled around his hole, the rough skin of the pad catching on the rim. It wasn’t as tight as Phil was expecting. Someone had been thinking ahead and for some reason, the discovery caught him by surprise.

“Huh! Already prepped…”

Suddenly Clint was embarrassed that he’d readied himself in the shower just in case things progressed to this stage. It had seemed like a good idea at the time but now it just felt cocky… excuse the pun.

“I, uh…” he said sheepishly, starting to duck his head and think up some excuse for his presumption. Phil, however, had other thoughts on the matter.

“Definitely approve. So Clint,” Phil murmured in a silky voice that rolled over Clint like warm honey. “You want to come on my cock?”

Clint’s head snapped back up again, an involuntary whimper escaping his mouth and his hole fluttering with need. Coulson was going to have him shooting off like a rocket before he got anywhere near his dick if he kept that up.

With a wicked version of that little half-smile of his, Phil lifted the bottle of oil, dropped some onto his open palm and leaned back to slide it up and down his length until it was slick and shiny. Phil lying there shamelessly naked, his hand wrapped around his dick was better than porn and Clint’s eyes darkened as he watched. His cock twitched against his belly, pre-come leaking from the slit trickling down his length leaving a sticky mess in the small patch of hair.

After a moment’s teasing knowing full well Clint was aroused and ready to be fucked, Phil reached around and smeared the remainder of the oil around Clint’s hole, before slowly pushing a finger inside to make sure he was loose enough to take him. And maybe to tease him. Just a little bit. Clint closed his eyes and groaned while he rocked against Phil’s hand. Phil pulled it back and carefully added another finger. Clint’s hole closed around them sucking them greedily inside.

“You’re ready for me, aren’t you Clint? Ready for my cock.”

Clint swallowed thickly and nodded. Phil talking dirty was such a fucking turn on especially when he had two fingers knuckle deep in his ass.

Eyes on Phil’s as he carefully removed his fingers to grip his shaft while Clint raised himself up and slowly lowered himself onto Phil's dick, inch by glorious inch until he was fully sheathed inside him. They kept still for a few moments until his ass became used to the stretch. Even with his earlier prep and the oil, it still burned a little. Phil was a big guy.

Their gazes remaining locked on each other, Clint braced himself against Phil's shoulders and experimentally rolled his hips. Phil's eyelids fluttered and his lips parted.  

“Oh god, Clint,” he breathed. “You feel so…”

“Good?” Clint provided when Phil paused. He rolled his hips again.

“Perfect,” Phil countered.

He let Clint dictate the pace. Slow and steady at first, gradually picking up speed as Clint rode him. He rose up and lowered himself down again, taking Phil in as deep as he could each time.

“Don’ wanna hurt ya,” Clint mumbled against Phil's lips, relaxing his grip on his shoulder.

“Then don't stop,” Phil murmured back. “Just bruising, Clint. Trust me, I plan on doing things to you that'll make you give me more.”

Clint wasn't sure if it was Phil's words or the possessive way he sat up to capture his bottom lip in his teeth after he spoke illustrating his point. Maybe it was a combination of both but was exactly what he needed to let go of his fears and fuck himself with abandon on Phil's cock.

He leaned forward pushing Phil back down again, hands bracketing Phil’s head on the back of the couch. Phil slid his hands round to Clint’s ass to squeeze and knead the flesh as Clint picked up the pace giving breathy moans with every slam against Phil’s body. Phil grunted, his toes pressed onto the floor to steady himself against Clint’s ruthless assault on his cock.

And finally, he remembered it all. The heat from Clint’s body seeping into his; sweat-soaked skin burning with desire, with passion, with good old-fashioned lust; fucking wildly but silently in a motel bedroom, in a S.H.I.E.L.D. bunk, and on one particularly incredible occasion against a wall, fully clothed with Clint naked beneath him. Fuck!

With another grunt, he thrust up into Clint harder and faster, almost bucking him off. Clint stayed mounted, bracing himself against the couch, fingers almost tearing holes in the cushions as he drove himself down onto Phil’s cock, riding him hard and deep.

The sounds of fucking became louder and more urgent. Skin slapping against skin punctuated with moans and sighs of pleasure. Their bodies glistened with sweat as the couch creaked beneath them.

“Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, fuck yeah,” Clint chanted in a broken voice. He was close now. He reached down and grabbed his cock in his fist tugging it with swift, brutal strokes while he fucked himself on Phil’s shaft.

He pulled his bottom lip into his mouth with his teeth, trying to keep himself silent. They’d had to stay quiet during their trysts in the desert and it didn’t occur to him that here, in his home with no-one around for miles, he no longer needed to.

“No,” Phil told him. “I’ve never heard you. Let me hear you now. Let me hear you come.”

Phil’s words and the tender way he said them pushed Clint over the edge, tiny bolts of lightning sparking along his spine as his orgasm hit. He cried out, ropes of hot come splashing against Phil’s stomach and chest, spilling over his hand. Seconds later, Phil closed his eyes and groaned - long and loud - between clenched teeth, jerking beneath him as he pulsed come into Clint’s ass in powerful, steady bursts. His hands clutched Clint’s hips tight enough to leave marks in the skin.

Heaving air into his lungs and shuddering with aftershocks, Clint collapsed on top of him burying his face Phil’s neck. Breathing heavily, Phil held him close with one arm, lightly stroking the fingers of the other hand up and down Clint’s back murmuring to him. Sweat cooled on their skin as they gradually came down from their shared climax but the glowing embers of the fire kept any chill at bay.

Sex hadn’t been part of Phil’s agenda any more than it had Clint’s but as they’d gravitated towards each other, finding their way back together again, it had happened naturally with the ease of two people meant to be together. And it would take more than death or orders or gods from another realm to keep them apart this time.

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that was it, dear readers. The end of the Imagine ClintCoulson prompt by fergumeister and my The Avengers fix-it. Thank you for your patience, especially with this last chapter. RL got in the way as sometimes happens but I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> ~ Lola 

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was meant to be around 1500 words and take a couple of weeks. After ten months and 20,000+ words later, it’s almost finished. 
> 
> The first six chapters fill the prompt and take place in the Marvel’s Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. universe somewhere between S2:E7 and S2:E10. Yes, the gang’s all here with Phil and Clint. The rest is a post-Avengers C/C fix-it, going from the Playground to Clint’s farmhouse.
> 
> The ICC mod and I felt the story was a bit big too be posted in one go on tumblr, so we’ve decided to release it in several parts over the next few weeks depending on how I get on with the last few chapters. As it's an Imagine ClintCoulson prompt it will get posted at our tumblr account the day before AO3 so I hope you’ll bear with me.
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and I hope you enjoy ~ Lola


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